Man in the Iron Mask: Redemption
by WynterSnow
Summary: Alternate storyline. For those who thought it was tragically unfair that D'Artagnan and Philippe never had the time to become acquainted. Complete
1. Default Chapter

_Athor's note: For this story, I have deviated from the progression of the story from the point where Philippe is being trained by the three Musketeers. For the flow of my story, I have changed this location from a chateau to a medieval walled city. Also, for plot purposes, in my story, it was D'Artagnan who wrote the letter to Raoul's commanding officer. There are likely to be other small changes apart from the more obvious ones._

ONE

Standing in his stirrups, gripping his galloping mount's sides with his knees as he leaned low over the gracefully arched neck, D'Artagnan urged more speed from the tiring horse. The strong black gelding, taller and stockier than the gray stallion he typically rode, responded instantly to its rider's request.

The gray, well-known to many as his favored mount, had been left in its stall in favor of the unrecognizable black. Seen standing outside any establishment, the stallion was a beacon to bystanders that D'Artagnan, Captain of the Musketeers, was inside, and during this trip, it was important that he remain anonymous. He could not risk being identified, so he had selected the gelding from the herd of unassigned horses at the Musketeer's stable. His uniform had also been left at the palace in favor of the black breeches and plain black coat that would allow him to blend in with the citizens he would encounter. A black cloak floated and billowed over the horse's hindquarters in rhythm to its long strides.

The countryside sped past in a blur of grassy green fields and colorful crops, and the Musketeer knew that the latter risked confiscation by the king to feed the army, an act which was forcing many citizens of France into poverty and starvation and was inciting widespread rebellion against the king and his representatives. No matter how many times D'Artagnan had tried to speak to the young king about his responsibilities, he remained oblivious to the suffering of his subjects.

In the curving road far ahead of him, he saw a column of supply wagons lumbering across a bridge which spanned a narrow stream, and his sharp eyes recognized the royal blue uniforms with the silver crosses tipped with gold fleur-de-lis as those of His Majesty's Musketeers. They were the men he had sent to retrieve supplies from neighboring communities to help relieve the burden of hunger on the starving Parisians, a temporary fix to an ongoing problem. He was pleased to notice that all the wagons appeared to be loaded to capacity.

Even out of uniform, he would be immediately recognized by his troops, so he sat back in the saddle and checked his horse's speed, then reined the animal off the road, and cut across the countryside. He entered a grove of trees upstream from the bridge that would help conceal him from the Musketeers.

The horse adjusted its speed again as they galloped down the gently sloping ground toward the slow moving water. As they approached the stream, D'Artagnan leaned forward and gave the horse its head. Its ears flicked nervously at the moving water, but a light touch from its rider's spur eliminated any notion of balking, and they sailed over the stream and landed smoothly on the other side. A steep embankment loomed ahead of them, and D'Artagnan nudged the horse's sides again when he felt the animal hesitate. Throwing its weight forward, the gelding galloped up the bank, and was then guided back in the direction of the road.

As they emerged from the trees, D'Artagnan cast a quick glance over his shoulder, and saw that the wagons and Musketeers were continuing to move slowly toward Paris, unaware that their captain was on a very personal mission that he hoped would solve many of the country's problems.

When he reached a fork in the road, he took the branch that meandered off to the right, noticing that the road narrowed considerably. Tall grasses grew on either side, and grass encroached on the road itself, indicating that it was rarely traveled.

He had passed a number of small villages during his ride from Paris, and judged that he was nearing his destination. Rest stops for the tired horse had been less frequent than he would have liked, but urgency necessitated the rapid pace. However, he knew that to continue for long at such a pace would kill the horse. Settling back in the saddle again, he drew in the reins, gradually pulling the animal down to a walk to allow it to take a breather.

The black's sweat-drenched sides heaved with exhaustion, and D'Artagnan patted its lathered neck with his gloved hand. "We are almost there, my friend," he said to the horse. "I regret the mistreatment, but a little farther and you will have a good rest."

The animal snorted and panted, as if wondering why it was being abused, but it plodded obediently beneath the anxious Musketeer. It was a young animal, and even though exhausted, there was still a spring in its step and an arch to its neck.

Anxiety filled D'Artagnan's heart at the slower pace and he was eager to be off again, for the news he carried to Aramis was critical, but he kept the horse at a walk a while longer. It would not serve his urgency to find himself on foot.

Glancing up at the position of the sun, he estimated that the time was the middle of the afternoon. By leaving the road and cutting across country whenever possible, he had made excellent time, but he still felt the importance of his mission and the necessity for quick resolution.

The gelding sensed its rider's urgency, and after about fifteen minutes it moved into a canter without being asked.

Adjusting quickly to the change in stride with the ease of an experienced horseman, D'Artagnan patted the animal's sleek neck again. "You have a good heart, my friend. When I return to Paris, I believe I will claim you as a second mount. If we both survive this trip," he added.

The gelding flicked its ears, unable to understand the words, yet understanding that it had pleased its rider.

D'Artagnan did not press the animal harder. Continuing on, alternating the controlled canter and a walk for another hour, he soon emerged from behind a low rise of ground and the village he sought came into view. Here, he shortened the reins again, and pulled the tired horse to a full stop. The black immediately lowered its head and its sides moved in and out rapidly, but the Musketeer hardly noticed. All his senses were focused entirely on the stone buildings that comprised the village, for here the danger to his life increased.

It was an ancient village dating from medieval times, as evidenced by the circular watch towers and high stone walls that had once protected the residents from warring tribes in those dangerous times hundreds of years earlier. A low rail fence extended from the high stone wall and continued down toward the river, containing a herd of milk cows, which grazed contentedly in the tall grass. Somewhere nearby he could hear the bleating of sheep. The community appeared peaceful, but he knew that looks could often be deceiving.

He had suspected for some time that a group of Jesuit rebels had been congregating in this township, possibly plotting to overthrow the king, but he had not attempted to obtain sufficient evidence to justify an assault on the village to eradicate the organization, confident that he and his Musketeers could deal with any attempts on the king's life. He was certain that it was to this place that Aramis had brought Athos and Porthos to prepare for their revolution. And D'Artagnan was well known as a staunch supporter of the king; hence, the need for disguise. Entering the village in his uniform would have been suicidal, but even in civilian clothing he would have to proceed with caution, for his countenance was well known to many. The problem he now faced was locating his friends, for questions from a stranger would be regarded with suspicion.

Dropping the reins on the horse's withers, he opened the satchel on his saddle and removed a musket pistol and checked its readiness. It was loaded and primed, so he reached beneath his cloak and tucked it into the back of his breeches, concealing it from view. Next, he grasped the hilt of his sword and partially withdrew it from its scabbard, making certain that it would draw smoothly with no obstruction. Satisfied, he pushed it back into the protective sheath. He hoped to avoid violence of any kind, but he would protect himself if the need arose.

Taking up the reins again, he nudged the horse's sides with his heels and followed the road as it approached the north wall of the village toward the entrance, keeping the horse at a slow walk. His entire body was alert and his eyes scanned the tower windows as he passed, looking for anything that might appear threatening, but all were dark and empty. Finally, the high wall parted, and he found himself at the head of the street that ran between the tall buildings toward the south end of the town.

The buildings on either side of the street were made primarily of stone and weathered gray wood, which appeared to be in an excellent state of repair. The avenue was unpaved, but it was wide and easily accessible to two way traffic, with several side streets branching off from the main artery. Curiously, the streets were clean and free of the garbage and litter typically found in villages and townships. Tufts of grass grew along the foundations of some of the buildings, and winding tendrils of creeper climbed up the walls, finding suitable irregularities in the rocks to grip and entwine. Planter boxes outside a few homes were filled with colorful flowers, suggesting occupancy, but there was a near deserted quality to the village which made him immediately uneasy, and he was concerned that he might have been seen and recognized before he had even reached the village.

Riding slowly past a side street, he glanced down it and saw a woman sweeping her stoop with a straw broom. The fingertips of his right hand immediately touched the brim of his plumed hat to acknowledge her.

She paused when she saw him, shading her eyes against the sun with her hand, then stepped back inside her home and closed the door.

Keeping the horse at a slow walk, he proceeded down the street, thinking about the suspicious look he had seen in the woman's face as she had observed him. Obviously, strangers were not well received in this town.

As he approached an alleyway between two buildings, he saw a hay wagon standing unattended just inside it, a suitable place to conduct an ambush. Positioning his hand on his right hip, where he could easily access his pistol, he cast a wary glance at the wagon as he passed, but nothing dangerous materialized from beneath the hay. Then he saw a movement in the shadowy alley behind the wagon, and his hand moved under the cloak toward the small of his back, where the pistol was nestled.

A young peasant girl, no more than sixteen years of age, leaned back against one of the buildings and giggled as a young boy pressed close against her, nuzzling and kissing her neck, apparently tickling her with his breath. Both were blissfully unaware that they were being observed.

It was just a tryst between young lovers. Lifting his eyes from the couple, D'Artagnan looked past them, toward the open yard at the end of the alley, but saw little of interest there. The edge of a circular well could be seen just beyond the corner of one of the buildings, and farther out, he saw freshly washed clothes fluttering in the mild breeze on a rope strung between two posts.

A smile twitched his mustache, realizing that the girl's mother had probably assigned her daughter the task of washing the clothes, and she had sneaked into the quiet alley for a rendezvous with her lover. Removing his hand from beneath the cloak, he continued his cautious advance up the street.

He had hoped to conveniently spot one of his friends outside in the open, so that he might not have to ask about them, but he knew that was an unrealistic expectation. He continued to be troubled by the fact that no one was moving about town that late afternoon. Aside from the woman and the young couple, he had seen no sign of other people, a fact which increased his concern that he had been recognized.

The hair prickled on the back of his neck as if disturbed by icy fingers of foreboding, and he jerked the reins sharply, bringing his mount to an abrupt halt in the middle of the street. The black snorted in protest, spraying froth from its muzzle. Turning in the saddle, D'Artagnan looked behind him, studying the empty street with unease. Athos had occasionally claimed that he had the eyes of an eagle, but as those sharp blue eyes darted from point to point, they failed to detect anything unusual except the abnormally deserted quality of the street itself.

Still, the awareness lingered, a nagging sensation that he was being watched by an as yet unknown entity. Facing front again, he lifted his eyes to the second floor windows of the buildings that lined the street. Most were empty, but in one of them, a curtain dropped quickly back into place, sending a ripple of alarm down the Musketeer's spine. His eyes held that window for a long, tense moment, but nothing threatening materialized. Still, the sensation lingered, and he was convinced that there was someone in that room who continued to observe him through the gap where the curtains did not quite meet, hidden within the shadows of the dark interior. Gazing intently at each building in turn, he saw nothing else that was noteworthy.

With one final glance at the window with the curtain, he took up the reins again, and the horse moved forward, its hooves clopping on the hard packed ground of the street.

When he reached a wide three-way intersection, he glanced down the juncture and noticed the remains of a thatched barn that appeared to have recently collapsed. A wagon was parked beside it, and two men were gathering up broken boards and clumps of thatching and tossing them into the wagon to be hauled away. Both men paused in their work to watch him as he passed. He dipped his head in a formal nod of greeting to acknowledge them, but they did not respond. Like the woman, they shaded their eyes and watched him in a decidedly unfriendly manner.

Dismissing the two men with a puzzled frown, he shifted his gaze back to the primary road ahead of him and continued to survey the quiet buildings on each side as he passed. Ahead of him, the main road continued until it wound out of sight in the tall grassy fields south of town.

He had nearly reached the end of town when he glanced down another narrow side street and noticed a tavern sign at the far end of it. Given Porthos' penchant for drink, the tavern was the place most likely to be able to provide him with the location of his friends, so he turned his horse down the street and proceeded toward it.

The tavern was a low one story building tucked quietly away in the shadow of the high stone wall. The perpendicular sign hanging over the door bore no writing, but simply displayed a painting on the wooden plank depicting a mug, tipped so that the foamy drink was spilling out of it. He stopped near the entrance.

Next door to the tavern was a two story building that could only be the brothel, another of Porthos's favorite places. A young woman dressed in ruffled bloomers was strolling casually around the balcony, presumably oblivious to her state of near-undress. She quickly caught sight of him, and moved to the corner for a better look. Apparently, she liked what she saw, for she smiled and waved at him in a beckoning fashion. "Come on up, handsome!" she called, leaning over the railing to give him an enticing view of her ample bosom.

D'Artagnan ignored the invitation and looked away. More than twenty years ago, he might have been tempted, but now his heart belonged to one specific woman, and women like the one on the balcony no longer held any interest for him.

This was the disreputable district found in nearly every village and town, frequently tucked out of sight from the main thoroughfares in smaller communities so that the residents who did not approve of them could pretend they were not there. Yet it was here that the men would sneak away for a drink or two, and where young boys solved the mysteries of the opposite gender.

Slowly, D'Artagnan dismounted and tied the reins to the corner post. After one final, wary perusal of the silent town, he opened the door and went inside.

Even with the window shutters open, the interior of the building was dark and shadowy in comparison with the brightness of the sunshine outside, and he paused just inside the door to allow his eyes to become adjusted to the low light. While he waited, he removed his riding gloves as he looked around the establishment.

The tavern was nearly empty. Only two people were present inside the room, seated at a table near a side entrance, engaged in a conversation which came to an immediate halt when they saw the stranger standing just inside the doorway. One of them stood up, and D'Artagnan estimated that he was probably the proprietor.

"May I be of assistance, _Monsieur_?" the man asked.

"I have traveled a long way," D'Artagnan said, casually. "I could do with a drink to break the dust."

"What is your pleasure?"

"Wine."

The man removed a small tin cup from the shelf on the wall and pulled a bottle of wine from beneath the counter, popped the cork, and poured a serving into it. He pushed it toward the edge of the countertop.

D'Artagnan withdrew his coin pouch from his pocket as he approached the counter, and tossed a piece of silver on the roughly hewn wood surface, which was quickly scooped up by the owner. He then lifted the cup to his lips and tasted the wine. His grimace of disapproval was only slight, but it was noticed by the proprietor. It was a cheap grade of wine, bitter without the sweetness of a quality aged product, and had clearly been weakened with ordinary water. Still, it was wet, and helped soothe his parched throat, although he believed that water straight from the well would have been more satisfying.

He could feel the eyes of the other man at the table scrutinizing him with unmasked curiosity, but when he glanced his direction, the man looked away, pretending to concentrate on the imperfections on the tabletop. D'Artagnan observed him a moment longer, wondering what interest he held for the man.

Noticing that his companion had attracted the stranger's attention, the proprietor attempted to divert that attention away from him. "I have never seen you around these parts before, _Monsieur_. Do you live around here, or are you just passing through?" It sounded like an attempt to make casual conversation, but the Musketeer sensed an underlying nervousness which told him that the proprietor was suspicious of him, as was everyone else who had seen him, with the possible exception of the prostitute on the balcony.

"Just passing through," D'Artagnan replied.

As he spoke, he removed his hat, and placed it on the countertop beside him. At that moment, he caught a blur of motion out of the corner of his eye, and as he turned toward it, he saw that the chair where the second man had been sitting was now empty. He had fled out the side door. D'Artagnan fixed his eyes quizzically on the face of the proprietor.

The man cleared his throat nervously and avoided his gaze as he busied himself by wiping out some of the cups with his apron. He glanced out the front window at the black gelding that stood resting at the corner post. "Looks like your horse has been ridden far and hard."

"Regrettably so. I have urgent business to attend," D'Artagnan replied, evasively. "Is there someplace I might I find a room for the night?"

"Well, I also own a small brothel next door. I suppose I might let you have a room for the night. It is up to you whether you share the bed with one of the ladies or not. Price is the same either way."

"I am not looking for company, and I was hoping for someplace a little quieter. The last time I was forced to room in a brothel, the banging of the headboard against the wall next door kept me awake."

The man laughed, nervously. "Well, that is the nature of the business, you know. Men usually go there for a good time, not to sleep."

"Yes, I know. Is there no other place that might suit my needs?"

"We don't see many travelers here, so we have no public lodging available." The man seemed to be growing more edgy at the prospect of the stranger staying overnight. His hands fumbled apprehensively with his apron. "However, if you don't object to sleeping outdoors, there is a quiet field beyond the bridge west of town. You can bed down out there, and your horse can graze and rest in the grass."

That was not exactly what D'Artagnan had in mind, but he found that a starry sky and a bed of grass were preferable to the noise and confusion of a brothel.

The tavern owner reached for the bottle again and started to tip it over the cup. "Your drink is almost empty. Would you care for another?"

D'Artagnan placed his hand over the cup, preventing the proprietor from filling it again. "No, thank you."

The proprietor shrugged as he corked the bottle. "I know; it isn't very good. We're a farming community here, _Monsieur_. No one around these parts can afford the good wine, like the nobles in and around Paris enjoy. Here, we have to make due with this."

"I would have thought that a farming community would be making a far better grade of wine than this," D'Artagnan replied.

The propriety looked startled. "Well . . . "

D'Artagnan nodded, understanding. "You save it for your regular customers, correct? And you serve this watered down, inferior product to strangers passing through."

The man shrugged, guiltily. "My apologies, _Monsieur_. The truth is, someone has recently purchased the bulk of my finer product for his own use. I haven't much left, so I must conserve where I can. I can open a bottle, if you wish," he offered. "No extra charge."

"No, that won't be necessary."

He lowered his gaze, studying the liquid that remained in the bottom of his cup. He suspected that the person who had purchased the finer wine was probably Aramis, for his taste was discriminating. It would be just like him to demand the best. He was wasting time, when he needed to locate his friends. However, he knew that to ask where he might find Athos, Porthos, and Aramis would incite increased suspicion, but Aramis was now a priest, so he decided to begin with that.

"Would there be a priest in the village?" he asked.

"A priest?" the man asked, uneasily. His hand moved faster, scrubbing the cup in an agitated fashion.

D'Artagnan observed him with growing unease. "You seem very nervous."

The proprietor glanced at him quickly, then looked away. "What would you need a priest for?"

"A private matter."

"Oh, well . . . " he began, then stopped when the door opened again. He quickly sidestepped away from the Musketeer, away from the line of fire, D'Artagnan realized. From the direction of the door, a voice whispered urgently, "That's him."

D'Artagnan started to turn around to face the new entries, then froze when he heard the sound of a musket pistol being cocked. Given the deserted quality of the tavern, it was easy to deduce that the musket was directed at him.

An authoritative voice behind him commanded. "Raise your hands and turn around slowly. Don't make any sudden movements."

D'Artagnan recognized the voice immediately as that of Aramis, but with his back turned and dressed in civilian clothes, he knew that the Musketeer-turned-priest had not yet recognized him, so he decided it would be prudent to implement caution.

Slowly, he raised his hands as if in surrender and turned around to face his old friend. Aramis and Athos stood before him with pistols leveled at him.

There was a pause as the two former Musketeers exchanged surprised glances.

"D'Artagnan!" Aramis exclaimed, shocked.

Excited murmurs could be heard from the proprietor and the man who had notified Aramis of his presence, the man who had vacated the chair by the side door minutes earlier. Everyone had heard of the legendary D'Artagnan.

Ignoring the exclamations, he gazed steadily at his two friends, who made no move to lower their weapons.

"It is good to see you again, Aramis." He shifted his eyes to Athos, who stared at him with more hostility than he had ever seen from the man who, until a few weeks earlier, had been his best friend for more than twenty years. "Athos." Now that he had been recognized, he started to lower his hands to his sides.

"Don't move," Athos warned. He made a threatening gesture with his pistol. "Keep your hands up."

D'Artagnan obeyed the command, but felt somewhat offended by the order.

Athos passed his musket to Aramis, and stepped forward to conduct a search for weapons. Given no choice, D'Artagnan submitted to the search, allowing the former Musketeer to investigate his person for items of interest. Athos paused at his lower back, feeling the hard protrusion that was the pistol he had placed there earlier. Glaring directly into D'Artagnan's eyes, he lifted the cloak and removed the pistol, then unbuckled the leather baldric that supported his sword and removed it as well. Then, he backed away to D'Artagnan's right side, holding the items up for Aramis to see. "He was armed."

"What are you doing here?" Aramis asked.

"Looking for you," D'Artagnan replied.

"Why?"

"We need to talk."

"With weapons?" Aramis asked, suspiciously.

"The roads are dangerous for a lone traveler."

"What was it you wanted to talk about?"

D'Artagnan glanced at the other men in the room. "A private matter, if you please."

"How did you know where to find us?"

"I have known for some time that this place was a haven for Jesuits. Knowing who you are, I suspected you would come here."

There was a nervous shifting of weight from the other men as they exchanged apprehensive glances at the news that their village was under suspicion. Aramis appeared troubled as well.

"Did you come alone, or should we expect to see a platoon of Musketeers riding in?" Aramis asked warily.

"I am alone, and I am not here to bring trouble. I came to talk about a matter of great importance to your life, Aramis."

Aramis looked at him for a long moment, as if uncertain whether or not to believe him. "To my life?" he asked, lifting an eyebrow with curiosity.

"You are in grave danger."

"I think maybe you had better explain." His attention was suddenly diverted, and he exclaimed, "Athos, no!"

D'Artagnan started to turn toward Athos, but before he could, he felt a hard blow behind his right ear. Brilliant lights exploded inside his head, and he felt his knees buckle, unable to support his weight. Staggering against the counter, struggling to remain on his feet, he pressed his hands to his head, trying to stem the excruciating pain. Unable to remain standing, he sank slowly down the front of the counter until he was seated on the floor.

Athos stood over him, a murderous expression on his face, and D'Artagnan knew he had been struck with the hilt of his own sword that was still clutched in Athos' hand.

"You didn't . . . have to do that!" D'Artagnan told him. His voice sounded strangely weak, even to him, and what little light existed in the dark room seemed to be fading at an alarming rate. Slowly, he slumped onto the hard floor.


	2. Chapter Two

TWO

He was jolted into semi-consciousness by the abrupt slam of a door, and as wakefulness slowly returned, he became aware of voices nearby, clipped and harsh, as if the people speaking them were arguing.

Though still not fully cognizant, he was able to discern that he was lying on a surface that was feather soft beneath him, and he decided that he must have been transferred to a bed somewhere; a house, he realized without making it a conscious observation, for a distinct aroma of food cooking in a kitchen somewhere permeated the air. There was a dull ache behind his right ear that threatened to ignite into something much worse if he moved.

As the voices became more defined and recognizable, he heard Aramis say sharply, "The matter was under control, Athos. You did not have to hit him!"

"He cannot be trusted!" Athos shot back. "I did what I had to do to restrain him."

"No, you did what you _wanted_ to do, and it had nothing to do with restraint. It had only to do with vengeance for something he was not even involved in. For weeks now, ever since Raoul's death, you have been a coiled spring just waiting to lash out at someone. D'Artagnan was a convenient target because you still want to blame him for your anguish over Raoul."

"He has the king's ear, yet he did nothing to bring my son home safely. Yes! I blame him for that! He could have redeemed himself by siding with us, by helping us, but he didn't. He sided with the king. He is a traitor to our code! He abandoned us when we needed him."

The bedroom door burst open, and Porthos, apparently the source of the door slam that had been heard moments earlier, burst into the room. "Aramis!" he bellowed.

The shout seemed to bounce around inside D'Artagnan's skull, intensifying his headache, and he felt his body flinch in response to it, but he was still unable to make any voluntary movements. His head began to throb, and a feeling of nausea crept into his stomach.

Spotting the Musketeer, Porthos pulled up short. "I was coming to tell you that D'Artagnan was in town, but I see you already know." He paused, as if just then noticing that the Musketeer was reclining on the bed. "What happened here? Is he unconscious?"

"Yes," Aramis replied. "It seems he came to talk to us about something, but Athos, in his infinite wisdom, decided it would be a good idea to strike him down with the hilt of his sword before hearing what he had to say."

"I am not interested in anything he has to say," Athos said, bitterly. The volume and pitch of his voice had changed, and D'Artagnan knew that he had moved closer to the window. "There is nothing he can say that will change anything."

"You saw the condition of his mount. It was near to the point of collapse. It would have to be something very urgent for him to push a horse so hard," Aramis told him, the calming voice of logic and reason. "He said it had something to do with me," he added. "And I would like very much to know what that is."

"A trick to get into your confidence," Athos accused. "You heard him – he knows that this is a congregating place for your Jesuits. He is here to lay a trap for us."

"I don't believe that."

"Is he all right?" Porthos asked, bending over the bed to scrutinize the Musketeer's appearance. "He looks rather peaked."

"You would too, if you'd just been clubbed to the floor by a hard metal object," Aramis told him.

"I saw him ride into town from Angelina's room," Porthos said, straightening up again. He paused briefly, then with great admiration in his voice, he added, "Damn, he's good! He knew he was being watched. He almost saw me, too. I couldn't believe it when I realized it was him. How did he find us?"

D'Artagnan's senses had returned enough that he experienced a moment of quiet revelation: So, that had been Porthos watching him from the window.

"That is a very good question," Aramis replied, then added, incredulously, "You said you spotted him coming into town? Why did you wait so long to come and tell us?"

"Well, I was . . . a little bit engaged at the time," Porthos explained. "I wanted to finish what I was doing first. I was looking out the window while I was waiting for Angelina to ---"

"Never mind," Aramis interrupted. "I don't think we need to hear the rest. Athos, I spoke to the physician before he left, and he said that you could have killed him with that blow to the head."

Athos exhaled heavily. "I didn't intend to hit him so hard," he said, the first trace of regret that had heard from him in a long time.

"You shouldn't have hit him at all!" Aramis retorted.

"I just wanted to subdue him. After what he did to me on the Musketeers' grounds, pinning me to the ground and humiliating me, I felt I was owed compensation for that."

"He stopped you from getting yourself killed!" Aramis reminded him. "You should _thank_ him for that."

"Never. Had he not interfered, the country would now be free of that tyrant . . . and I would be with Raoul."

Aramis sighed, and D'Artagnan heard his footsteps thumping on the wooden floor as he moved closer to the window and clapped a comforting hand on Athos' shoulder. "Athos, I grieve for your loss, I truly do, but D'Artagnan was right to stop you. And now, because of your temper, we will have to wait until he comes to before we can find out why he came. And all of this is taking away valuable time from training the boy."

"I don't see how he can possibly be ready in time anyway, Aramis," Athos said in a defeated tone of voice. "He has too much to learn in too little time. The ball is less than three weeks away. There is no way possible that he can be ready by then. And now with _him_ here," he added, indicating D'Artagnan, "it only makes it more dangerous."

"Would it kill you to speak his name?" Aramis asked, sadly. "Only a few short weeks ago, you loved him as a brother. I never thought we would come to this; that you would deliberately cause injury to one of our own."

"And I never thought he would turn his back to us when we needed him!" Athos declared, resentfully. "He's no longer one of us."

"He is!" Aramis insisted.

"Why do you keep taking his side?" Athos bellowed, his temper flaring again.

"There is no side to be taken here, Athos," Aramis said, wearily. "The bond between the four of us has not been broken simply because he chose not to join us in this. In the old days, the four of us were known by the other Musketeers as _the Inseparables_, and there was a reason we were called that –"

"Because we always stuck together!" Athos interrupted.

Aramis continued without acknowledging the outburst. "It may not be obvious to you right now, in your grief, but he still abides by that bond we established all those years go. Here are the facts: he could have had us all arrested for treason, yet he did not do so. He also could have arrested you for your attempt on the life of the king, but again, he did not. He allowed you to walk away from that incident. Did it never occur to you that he could have lost his commission for that?"

"He's right, Athos," Porthos agreed. "You wounded at least two of his Musketeers in that attempt, one of them seriously. He knows that we intend to replace the king, and he knows where our meeting place was. He could have gone there with a platoon of soldiers and arrested us, but he let us go, even knowing what we intend to do, even though he opposed us. He may not be with us in this matter, but it seems he is not entirely against us, either."

Athos was silent for a long moment, unable to argue with their logic. "I don't like his being here," he said, at last. "Aside from the queen herself, he knows Louis better than anyone. He's the one who is going to be the most difficult to fool. I don't know, Aramis. I think we should reconsider this plan of yours. Philippe looks almost exactly like Louis, but there are differences, and D'Artagnan is the one most likely to detect those differences."

"Which is exactly why I wanted him in on this from the beginning. To pull this off, we _need_ him!"

"He will betray us!"

"No! Now that he's here, it may be to our advantage. Once he meets our young replacement, we may be able to sway him to ---"

"No! Absolutely not!" Athos' exclamation was forceful, and caused D'Artagnan to flinch again in response to the pain that shot through his head, and he could not suppress a low groan. This time, the others must have noticed, for the conversation abruptly stopped, and he knew they were looking at him.

"I think he's coming out of it," Aramis said. His footsteps indicated that he was approaching.

D'Artagnan felt the bed shift slightly as the priest sat down on the edge of it. Then something was pressed against the injury, and excruciating pain shot through his head again, bringing him fully awake. He inhaled sharply through his teeth with a hissing sound. His body recoiled, as if to rise, and his hand reached for the injury.

Aramis caught his wrist, and held him firmly. "No, don't touch it. You were bleeding just a bit, so the physician applied a compress to it.'

D'Artagnan opened his eyes and found that he had slightly risen up from the pillow, and Aramis had placed a hand on his chest to hold him down. The other hand still clutched his wrist.

"I'm sorry if I hurt you," Aramis apologized, releasing his wrist. "I was just checking the compress. The injury appears to have stopped bleeding." He removed the cloth from the pillow and set it aside.

D'Artagnan relaxed on the pillow again, stroking his forehead with his fingers, his expression slightly contorted as he attempted to manage the pain and nausea.

Aramis was watching him carefully, taking notice of the degree of pain he saw on his friend's face. "How do you feel?" he asked, concerned.

"I've felt better," he said with a note of sarcasm.

Aramis's expression was sympathetic, even apologetic, even though he had not been the one to deliver the crushing blow. "The doctor said you may have a headache for a while. I've prepared something for you that might help." He reached for a tin cup on the bedside table and offered it to the Musketeer. "Let me help you."

D'Artagnan looked into the cup at the rather murky looking liquid, reluctant to drink it. "What is it?"

"Water and a mixture of some herbs that help to relieve pain."

D'Artagnan knew that Aramis had learned some natural remedies during his training for the priesthood, and also believed that his friend would never give him anything that was not safe to consume. Trustingly, he allowed Aramis to slip his hand beneath his head as he tipped the cup against his lips. At the first swallow, he felt his body shudder in violent revulsion, and for a moment, feared he would retch. "Ugh!" He pushed the cup away.

Aramis smiled. "I know, it tastes a bit like barnyard sludge, but it does have some effectiveness against pain. You should drink it all. It will help, I assure you."

"I would rather deal with the pain."

The priest's smile broadened as he returned the cup to the bedside table. "You wouldn't believe how many times I've heard that. Do you remember what happened to you?"

Prompted by the query, D'Artagnan's eyes darted to Athos, who stood beside the window watching him with an expression that was devoid of emotion. "You hit me," he said with a note of disbelief in his voice. "I was no threat to you. Why would you do such a thing?

"You know why," Athos told him, coldly.

"Yes, well," Aramis said, feeling the remorse that Athos apparently did not. "I'm sorry your welcome here was so uncongenial. One of my helpers was in the tavern when you arrived, and he came to inform me that a stranger had ridden into town; a stranger who wore the clothing of a commoner, but who possessed the countenance of a nobleman. We feared you were one of Louis' spies."

D'Artagnan pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, trying to ease the relentless throbbing. "I am anything but a nobleman, Aramis. You know that."

"Yes, but you carry yourself like one. I can see how he was unable to make the distinction."

"Are you a spy, then?" Athos challenged.

The question stung, and D'Artagnan's gaze fell upon him once again. "Of course, I am not a spy. Whatever you may think of me, Athos, I would never consent to that." He fell silent for several moments, concentrating on the persistent aching in his head. He noticed for the first time that they had removed his cloak, and had draped it over his lower body. The sharply slanted sunlight of evening shone through the open window, and he found the brightness to be very uncomfortable. He laid his forearm across his eyes to shield them. "How long have I been out?"

"More than half an hour. We were starting to worry about you, my friend." He looked at the former Musketeer who still stood near the window. "Athos, would you close the shutters? The sunlight is bothering him."

Athos glared resentfully, but did as he had been asked. The shutters were closed, and the room became more shaded.

"Thank you," D'Artagnan said. He fell silent for several moments, but then remembered the tired horse he had ridden from Paris. Withdrawing his arm from across his eyes, he asked, "Has anyone cared for my horse?"

"Yes," Aramis told him. "I had one of my helpers walk him, rub him down, and then bed him down in the paddock. With a few days rest, he should recover from the hard ride you gave him. Whatever it was you wanted to talk to us about must have been important to have pushed that horse so brutally."

"It is." D'Artagnan grimaced and closed his eyes tightly for a moment, fighting a wave of nausea. When it passed, he placed his hand on the priest's arm and said, "Aramis, you must not journey to your rendezvous point at the docks. Louis is laying a trap for you."

The three former Musketeers exchanged shocked glances. Athos moved closer to the bed, his expression decidedly confrontational. "How did you know about that?"

"One of your Jesuits was captured in Paris two days ago with a communication bearing the seal of the general of the Jesuit order. In it were detailed plans for a rendezvous between him and some local compatriots at a storage shed at the docks."

"Were you the one who made the arrest?" Athos asked.

"No. I don't know how this man came into Louis' custody, and he did not take me into his confidence in this matter, but I overheard him meeting with one of the generals in his army. The secret passages in the palace were beneficial to me in this. He's sending soldiers there dressed as dock workers to lie in wait for you. He ordered the general to take no prisoners. Everyone is to be killed on the spot."

Aramis grasped Porthos's arm. "Go to Pierre. Send him to Paris immediately to cancel that meeting! I don't want a single man at that dock!"

Porthos nodded, and quickly departed.

"What happened to my messenger?" Aramis asked. "Is he alive?"

"No. From what I overheard, the interrogation was brutal. The general wanted the name of the Jesuit leader. He eventually succumbed."

Aramis closed his eyes briefly, speaking a silent prayer for the messenger's sacrifice.

"I do know this," D'Artagnan continued. "He did not give up your name. Louis still is unaware that you are the Jesuit general, but he suspects that the three of you are up to something."

Aramis sighed, regretfully. "You barely got here in time to stop me, D'Artagnan. I was planning to leave in the morning. What about you? Will he connect your absence with the cancellation of the meeting?"

"I don't think so. He knows that I disapprove of his handling of the Jesuits, but he has no way of knowing that I overheard the meeting. And I had already asked for a leave of absence on another matter before I overheard their plans."

"Thank you, D'Artagnan," the priest said, gratefully. "You saved many lives by coming here with this."

"I could not allow you to walk into a trap."

Aramis cast a meaningful glance at Athos, who looked away, still unwilling to admit that he was wrong.

D'Artagnan continued, "There are other things I wish to discuss, but later, when I feel better. Stopping you was the most urgent."

Aramis nodded his understanding. "All right. We shall talk more in the morning. In the meantime, supper is almost ready. Do you feel you can eat something?"

D'Artagnan grimaced as he felt his stomach tighten at the mere thought of food. "I fear I will become ill if I attempt to eat anything right now," he admitted.

"All right. I'll bring you something later, if you wish. You rest."

Aramis rose from the bed and gestured toward the door. Athos went through it without a backward glance, but Aramis reached out to pat his shoulder affectionately before following. The gesture hurt, intensifying the headache, but because it was offered with fondness, he covered his discomfort.

Withdrawing the hand from the Musketeer's shoulder, Aramis proceeded to the door, but paused to turn back. "I'll look in on you again later." Then he stepped into the corridor and closed the door behind him.

Left alone, D'Artagnan lay quietly on the bed and closed his eyes to rest. His primary mission accomplished, stopping Aramis from leaving for the meeting, he felt his body began to relax, and soon he began to doze.

Gradually, as the hours passed, the light in the room began to fade as the sun set and the darkness began to settle over the land, and slowly, the throbbing headache and the waves of nausea began to subside enough that he felt able to rise.

Tossing aside the cloak that covered him, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up – too quickly.

The room spun madly, and he groped for the bedside table on which to catch himself. The candleholder toppled to the floor with an alarming clatter as the table tipped on two legs.

The door opened at that moment and Aramis stopped in the doorway holding a tray. He watched as D'Artagnan caught himself on the table, falling heavily across it as the table thudded back on all four legs. Then he sank back down on the bed to wait for the dizziness to abate.

Aramis quickly set the tray on the table and placed his hand on his friend's shoulder. "I don't think you're ready to be up just yet," he observed.

D'Artagnan nodded his head in agreement. "I was feeling better, but I didn't consider that I might become dizzy when I tried to stand."

"You must take it easy. That was quite a hard blow you took."

D'Artagnan looked up into Aramis' face, feeling great sorrow that he had made an enemy of his best friend. "Does he hate me so much, Aramis?"

Uncomfortable with the question, the priest withdrew his hand from his shoulder, and bent to retrieve the fallen candleholder. He replaced the candle that had fallen out of it, and set it upright on the table beside the tray. "He doesn't hate you, D'Artagnan," he said at last. "Not in his heart. He hates everything that has happened, and he doesn't understand _why_ they happened. If it makes you feel any better, he's been surly for weeks, lashing out at all of us."

"I'll warrant he did not try to cave in your skull or that of Porthos."

Aramis sighed, heavily. "No, he did not. I hope you can forgive him for that. He has not been the same since Raoul died. None of us have known the love of a child, so we cannot fully comprehend the agony he must be enduring."

D'Artagnan looked away, a strange cloud passing across his brow. "No, we haven't," he agreed. "Being loved by one's child must be a wondrous thing."

"I never really wanted children myself, but Athos had a true gem in Raoul."

"Yes. Too bad all children do not turn out as well." He fell silent, deep in thought.

"I have brought you something to eat, if you feel up to it. It isn't much. Just some broth cooked with some chicken and vegetables, but since you haven't eaten yet this evening, I thought you might be hungry by now. The doctor said you should eat lightly at first."

He glanced at the bowl of soup and felt his stomach grumble eagerly in reaction to the sight of the food. "Actually, I haven't eaten since this morning, before I left Paris. I was on the road at lunchtime, so I skipped it."

"I'm sure you will like it," Aramis said with a knowing smile. "Angelina is not the most virtuous woman in this village, but she is surely the best cook!"

D'Artagnan was too tired and too sad to comment. He slowly pushed himself into a seated position again to slip off his coat. Beneath it, he wore a billowy white shirt with ruffled cuffs, the current fashion for men. He started to lay it across the foot of the bed, But Aramis reached for it.

"I'll take that," the priest offered.

D'Artagnan passed it to him, and he hung it and the cloak up on a peg on the wall.

"I brought in the satchel from your saddle. It's here on the floor under your coat." When D'Artagnan did not answer, he added, "I'll leave you alone now." He moved toward the door and placed his hand on the knob, but was stopped by D'Artagnan.

"Aramis."

He turned back to face him.

"Thank you."

Aramis smiled. "I'll come back later for the tray." He closed the door behind him, leaving D'Artagnan alone again.


	3. Chapter Three

THREE

Upon opening his eyes the next morning, D'Artagnan felt mildly confused to awaken in an unfamiliar bed in a room that was not his own, but as he lifted his head from the pillow to take in the details of the bedchamber, the events of the preceding day fell into place. Reaching up, he gingerly probed the sore spot behind his right ear with his fingertips, exploring the swelling that had risen there. It was tender to the touch, so he removed his hand and rolled onto his back. Resting his hands across his abdomen, he laced his fingers together as he thought about how his journey to the village had ended.

Athos had struck him.

The very idea that his best friend had assaulted him with such vindictiveness was equally as painful as the blow itself. It had been startling enough when Athos had punched him in the jaw after receiving news of Raoul's death, but that had been a spontaneous reaction to his grief. Striking him with the hilt of the sword had been a premeditated act, intended to hurt.

Raoul was Athos's only son, and the young man's death had left him shattered and embittered. D'Artagnan could not even begin to comprehend an agony of that magnitude, but neither could he comprehend the depth of the hostility that had been levied at him regarding events over which he had had no control. Sadly, he recalled his friend's words of warning from weeks earlier: _"If this king harms my son merely to take a lover, then that king will become my enemy, and so will any man who stands between that enemy and me."_ Because D'Artagnan had prevented Athos from attempting to assassinate the king, he now considered him an enemy and a traitor to their code, when nothing could have been further from the truth.

The sound of a door being opened and closed farther down the corridor broke into his thoughts, and he lifted his head from the pillow again to listen. Footsteps thumped heavily down the stairs, and faded away. Porthos, he concluded. No one else walked with such a swagger and a heavy gait.

Tossing back the covers, he slowly swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up, but paused there for several moments rubbing his eyes as he waited for the lingering drowsiness to fade. Glancing at the bedside table, he noticed that the tray Aramis had brought the night before had been removed. The priest must have come in while he slept and carried it away. He lowered his gaze to the floor, noticing that his boots were beside the bed, so he reached down and pulled them on, leaving the cuffs turned down below his knees.

Recalling the vertigo that had nearly sent him crashing to the floor yesterday evening, he placed his hand on the bedside table and steadied himself as he slowly eased himself off the bed. The room remained stable and the dizziness did not return, and although there remained a dull, constant ache behind his ear, the throbbing headache he had anticipated did not materialize.

He was still clothed, having laid down the night before without undressing, but his blousy white shirt with full sleeves and ruffled cuffs had pulled partially free of his breeches, so, moving slowly and carefully, he tucked the hem in at the waist to make himself more presentable. His satchel was still lying on the floor beneath his coat, where Aramis had placed it, and his riding gloves were lying on top of it. Several changes of clothes and other personal items were packed inside the satchel, but he did not want to bend over to retrieve it, fearful that the dizziness or the throbbing headache would return, so he left it where it was.

Now that he was upright again and reasonably steady, he moved across the room to the shutters and opened them, allowing the early morning light to fill the room.

His second story window overlooked the street he had traveled down the afternoon before, and as he watched, several men and boys walked past. They were clearly farmers, deduced by their manner of dress and the farming implements that they carried. One man was leading a team of sturdy horses, outfitted with a harness that would be hitched to a plow. They were likely going into the fields to work their crops.

Leaving the shutters open, he turned back into the room. It was much larger and more ornate than his sparsely decorated accommodation at the palace. A large hearth dominated the wall opposite the door, with the bed positioned near enough to benefit from its warmth on cold winter nights. A comfortable easy chair was placed near the window to take advantage of the light, and a small writing table sat in the corner.

His gaze came to rest on the wash table near the door. A water pitcher and a wash basin were sitting on it, so he went to it and lifted the pitcher, pleased to find that it was full. Tipping it over the basin, he poured enough to wash his face and drive away the last remnants of sleep from his eyes.

As he dried his face and hands on the neatly folded towel that was lying beside the basin, he noticed that a small square mirror was affixed to the wall above the wash basin. Leaning closer to his reflection, he parted the long brown hair behind his ear and turned his head slightly to see how much damage Athos had done. The normally white skin of his scalp was an angry shade of purple and blue, and a thin cut had scabbed over with dried blood. He dipped the towel in the water, soaking it thoroughly, and pressed it to the injury for several moments, allowing the cool water to sooth the feverish skin.

As he held the towel against his head, his eyes settled on his belongings once again, noticing that his sword and pistol were conspicuously absent.

Directly across the hall, another door opened and closed, and he listened to the footsteps moving along the corridor and down the stairs. The steps were light and quick, denoting a man with a purpose: Aramis.

Laying aside the towel, he went to the door and placed his hand on the knob, expecting to find himself locked in, but as he turned it, he heard the satisfying click as the latch released, and the door came open.

Stepping outside the door, he found that he was at the end of the long and narrow corridor, furthermost from the staircase. The door directly across the hall was open, revealing a rumpled bed and a hearth identical to the one in the room in which he had been placed. Approaching the door, he curiously observed the items inside without entering it. The cassock hanging on one of the pegs confirmed that this was indeed Aramis's room, and his coat and other familiar possessions were also present.

The other doors along the lengthy corridor were closed, and the walls between them were decorated with beautifully woven and colorful tapestries.

His boots thumped on the hard wooden floor as he strode past the other doors and the tapestries, and he started down the narrow staircase, wondering how they had gotten him up those stairs the day before.

When he reached the bottom, he turned toward the muffled voices that could be heard coming from a closed door behind him, but when he reached it, he paused outside it to listen, hoping the voices belonged to Porthos and Aramis rather than strangers who might be alarmed to find an unfamiliar person wandering around in their house.

The voices he had heard were no longer speaking, but he was certain they had been coming from that particular door, so he turned the knob and pushed it open. There was a high threshold and a low header, so he stooped to avoid banging his already sore head as he stepped up into the kitchen.

It was spacious, with a long wooden table dominating the room. A fire blazed cheerfully in the large hearth, and an iron skillet sat on the table, awaiting the arrival of the cook. Other cooking utensils hung on walls or sat on a preparation table against the wall. A large washtub was set up in one corner near the door for washing dishes, and a churn stood nearby. Several windows were open wide to permit the cooling breeze inside the house, and through them he heard voices speaking, so he moved closer.

A circular mortar barrier surrounded a well which stood in an open area between buildings. Beside it, Aramis was turning the crank, pulling up a bucket of cold water while Porthos leaned casually on the barrier watching and talking.

There was an open door leading outside near the windows, so he went to it and stepped outside. Turning to his right, he walked around the corner of the building and approached his friends.

Porthos saw him first, and spread his arms wide as he walked toward him, and drew him into a bear hug that squeezed the air out of his lungs. "Good morning, D'Artagnan!" he said loudly, slapping him heartily on the back. "You look a great deal better than the last time I saw you!"

D'Artagnan grunted, unable to draw in enough air to respond.

Aramis set the bucket of water on the edge of the mortar wall, and pushed playfully at Porthos. "Easy, Porthos! You don't want to cause him to have a relapse!"

D'Artagnan smiled in response to the warm greeting, and when he was released from Porthos' hug, he said, "I'm feeling much better."

Aramis stepped forward to embrace him in turn. "I'm pleased that you are suffering no ill effects from . . . what happened yesterday. Did you sleep well?"

"Yes, actually. I was so exhausted after that long ride that I don't think I even turned over all night long."

"That is good. I'm glad. I came in to check on you before retiring, but you were sleeping, so I didn't disturb you." His expression became more serious. "You have me very intrigued, D'Artagnan. Yesterday, you mentioned that there were things that you wanted to discuss with us."

D'Artagnan lowered his gaze to the hard ground, noticing the dry dusty appearance which suggested that the area had seen little rain, recently. "Yes. They were my initial reasons for seeking a leave of absence. I just hope my words will be well received."

"Sounds serious," Aramis commented.

"It is, I'm afraid. It concerns --"

He stopped abruptly when he saw Athos approaching with a bucket. Like Aramis, he had apparently intended to draw water from the well, but he slowed his pace briefly when he saw the Musketeer and his other two friends.

"Athos," Aramis beckoned. "You're just in time. D'Artagnan was about to discuss with us the other reasons why he sought us out."

Athos glared resentfully, but made no comment. Recovering from his initial reaction to seeing D'Artagnan, he strode past them as he continued toward the well, a deliberate snub. When he reached it, he attached the bucket to the rope, and turned the handle to lower it into the dark depths of the well.

"It concerns you," D'Artagnan told him. "And Raoul."

At the mention of his son's name, Athos whirled around abruptly, releasing the windlass so that the bucket dropped rapidly into the well with a muffled splash when it hit the water. "Do not dare speak to me of him!" he snarled, his eyes bright with anger.

D'Artagnan was startled by the viciousness in Athos's voice and the hatred in his eyes. "Athos, I –"

"No! You are a traitor! You are not worthy to speak his name!"

D'Artagnan broke his gaze, and as he did, he noticed a quick movement in the kitchen window as someone stepped quickly behind the shutter. His eyes lingered on the window, but the person obviously was trying to avoid being seen.

Noticing his reaction, Athos, Porthos and Aramis turned to look, and the Musketeer saw a discrete glance pass between them.

"I told you he was good," Porthos muttered to Aramis.

D'Artagnan shifted his attention back to his friends. A vague memory from the day before slipped almost into his thoughts, but he was unable to completely grasp it. He was certain that they had mentioned someone, someone who resembled the king. Even though the memory remained indistinct, he realized that they had selected someone that they intended to place on the throne when Louis was deposed, and were training him for the job.

His eyes settled on Athos again. "I know you believe me a traitor, but I have not been disloyal to you. I have tried to walk a fine line between my loyalty to the three of you and my duty to my king, trying to balance one against the other, and it has not always been easy. It has been increasingly difficult, in fact, to reconcile my revulsion of his behavior with my duty as his protector. I told you yesterday that there was another reason why I came here, apart from the warning for Aramis." Stooping, he withdrew a folded letter from a concealed pocket in the lining of his boot.

Surprised expressions passed across the faces of the three former Musketeers, and D'Artagnan deduced from them that that his clothing had been searched for documents the previous day while he had been unconscious, leaving him with a distinct sense of personal violation. They had missed the secret pocket in his boot, its existence known only to him and his boot maker.

Setting aside his annoyance at being searched, he held the letter up without extending it toward Athos. At the moment, he merely wanted the man to see it while he explained its contents. "This is a letter from Raoul's commanding officer."

Interest immediately flickered in Athos' dark eyes.

D'Artagnan continued, "I bring it because I feel you have a fundamental right to know exactly what happened to your son."

"I know what happened to my son!" he retorted. "He was murdered by that arrogant bastard you continue to follow blindly."

D'Artagnan seemed to flinch at the word _bastard,_ and he said quietly, "I do not follow him blindly. In fact, I have seen more than you will ever know. After you left the Musketeers' compound that day when the news of Raoul's death arrived, I wrote a letter to the general and hired a courier to deliver it, instructing him to wait for the reply." He passed his hand across his jaw, as if still able to feel the blow from Athos's fist that had staggered him, both physically and mentally. "In my letter, I questioned him about why he had placed Raoul on the front lines in direct violation of the orders that had been issued by the king. This is his reply. I offer it to you, Athos, if you wish to see it."

He extended the letter toward Athos, and after a hesitation, the former Musketeer stepped forward and snatched it from his fingers, his dark, expressive eyes still blazing with hostility. Stepping back again, he unfolded the letter and read it once silently, then closed his eyes in agony.

"What is it?" Aramis asked.

Athos read aloud: _"Captain D'Artagnan, I am in receipt of your letter regarding the placement of Raoul on the front lines. I do not know why the king would tell you that he had been placed in a non-combat position, as his orders to me were quite explicit. His orders were that Raoul be deployed . . ." _He paused to steady the quaver in his voice._ ". . . be deployed at the vanguard of the assault, directly in front of the cannon. I must add that Raoul died as bravely and heroically as any man I have witnessed, leading the assault on the fortification with great courage. I hope you will alert his father that he should be proud of his son's valor. Alert him also that Raoul did not suffer, having died instantly while . . . "_ His voice trailed, unable to continue.

"My heart fell when I read that letter," D'Artagnan said. "You were right. I was wrong. Terribly and tragically wrong. Louis sent Raoul to be killed on the front lines so that he would be free to pursue Christine, knowing that she would not welcome his advances as long as Raoul lived. Louis lied to me, as he has lied to everyone he comes in contact with. I am so sorry, Athos."

Athos stared at the letter, refusing to meet the sympathetic gazes of the others.

D'Artagnan continued. "Were it possible, if it would restore some measure of peace to you, I would willingly exchange my life for Raoul's. As it is, all I can do is offer my apology, and also this: If you will have me, if it is not too late for you to learn to trust me again, I am now ready to hear your plans to replace the king. I have accepted the fact that he is incapable of ruling. I ask only one thing. That Louis not be harmed. I have personal reasons for asking this, and it is my only condition."

Athos absorbed D'Artagnan's words without changing expression. He swallowed a painful lump in his throat with the confirmation that his son had been deliberately sent to his death by a ruthless king. Shifting his eyes to Aramis and Porthos, he saw that both of them were deeply moved by D'Artagnan's apology, and sympathetic of Athos's obvious pain.

Athos lowered his gaze to the letter again, fighting the emotions that were building inside him. The fire had temporarily gone out of him, but the hate had not. After a long moment, he said quietly, "Go to hell." Turning, he walked into the house, still clutching the letter in his hand. His bucket of water had been forgotten.

Despondently, D'Artagnan walked to the well and leaned his hands on it, gazing into the darkness of the large round pit.

Aramis sighed heavily, and said quietly to Porthos, "I never would have believed that there could be this much tension between the two of them. See to Athos. I will see to D'Artagnan."

Porthos followed Athos into the house, while Aramis approached D'Artagnan. Seating himself on the mortar wall, he observed his friend for a few moments before speaking.

Finally, he said in a quiet voice, "I must commend your handling of the situation with Athos. Your letter to the general reflects your belief that Raoul was to be kept out of danger. Athos will come to see that in time. It is his own personal agony that makes him strike out with such irrational behavior. His grief and depression have consumed him, but he channels that grief into fits of anger. I think he does it to keep from breaking down. He has not smiled once since Raoul's death. Not once. All the joy that was once in his heart seems to have died with him."

"He blames me for what happened to Raoul. Once, he trusted me completely. Now, when I look in his eyes, I see hate and suspicion." He exhaled heavily and as he sat down on the edge of the well beside the priest, he added, "I saw suspicion and distrust on your eyes as well, Aramis, yesterday in the tavern. And I know that my clothes were searched while I was unconscious."

Surprise flickered across Aramis's face, followed quickly by an expression of guilt. "How did you know that?"

"I saw the surprise on your faces when I pulled the letter from my boot. It was obvious that it was missed during your search."

"I must explain," Aramis said without hesitation. "Yesterday afternoon, one of my men reported seeing a column of Musketeers moving toward the crossroad from a neighboring village, their wagons loaded with vegetables and fruit. Stealing more supplies from the helpless civilians on the king's orders, I suspect. And then you showed up a short time later stating that you were aware of the Jesuits congregating in this village. Well, I wasn't sure what to think. I am sorry, D'Artagnan; we should have trusted you."

"Yes, you should have," he said, firmly. "The Musketeers were on my orders, not the king's. A fair price was paid for the food, Aramis. It was purchased, not stolen."

Aramis looked impressed. "Well, that is something, isn't it? How did you manage to convince Louis to purchase food for the starving people of Paris instead of causing the country people to starve when he steals from one to feed the other?"

D'Artagnan looked away, uncomfortably. "I didn't."

At last, Aramis understood, and his expression softened with intense admiration. "You paid for it yourself, didn't you? With your own wages. The money you have been saving for your retirement."

"The needs of the people are more urgent than mine."

"Still, it was a noble and compassionate thing to do."

"I did not do it to be noble. I remember what it is like to be hungry. It is but a temporary solution to an ongoing problem. It will have no lasting affect on the hunger and poverty. Which is why I'm here. To try to find a lasting one."

"That is what we want as well, my friend."

"The wagons should arrive in Paris today. I have placed Lieutenant Andre in charge of distributing the food to the neediest families."

"He idolizes you. Have you noticed that he even trims his mustache to look like yours? All of your young Musketeers are in awe of you, the famous D'Artagnan."

Aramis had made his statement in an effort to lighten things between them, but D'Artagnan did not respond. Shifting his gaze, he looked out across the gently rolling grassy hills outside the village.

Aramis studied his appearance for a long moment, detecting that same lingering depression that he had sensed in the catacombs, when he had revealed his plot to overthrow the king. "My friend, I continue to sense that you are carrying a secret deep within your heart. I mentioned this once before, and you declined to talk about it."

"As always, your perception is remarkably astute, but regrettably I cannot speak of it."

"I am a priest. Anything you say to me will be between the two of us, if you wish to unburden yourself. I will not judge you, and I will keep your secret. Perhaps I might even be able to help you."

"You cannot help me, Aramis. No one can. The burden I carry, I must carry to my grave."

"Is it as serious as that?" Aramis asked, prompting him in the hopes that he would continue.

After another long pause, the Musketeer nodded. "Yes, it is that serious. My life is a charade, Aramis. Everywhere I go I hear the comments from the people about the great D'Artagnan, captain of the Musketeers, a man of sterling character, flawless reputation, and conduct that is above reproach. As you mentioned, the young Musketeers under my command look up to me, and treat me as if I can do no wrong, but I do not deserve their adulation. I have trained them that duty, honor, and commitment to one's country and sovereign are foremost to the integrity of a Musketeer, yet I have failed to live up to that myself. The truth is . . . "

Here, he paused. Aramis was leaning forward in anticipation of the revelation, and his face expressed disappointment that he had stopped.

After a long moment, he continued, "The truth is I have committed an act of high treason."

Aramis shrugged, and placed a friendly hand on D'Artagnan's shoulder. "I should not consider that such a terrible offense, considering the king. I mean, the rest of us have been plotting to overthrow him. That is also high –"

"The treason was not against this king, but the former."

The smile faded. "His father?"

D'Artagnan paused for another long moment, then said, "Yes."

"What exactly did you do?" Aramis asked with great concern.

"That is what I cannot reveal. What I did . . ." He stopped and almost declined to continue. He looked away, as if ashamed, then turned back to face him again. Lowering his voice to almost a whisper, he continued, "What I did has consequences that are as relevant today as they were back then. The sin I committed was against God and country, and should it become known, it would send France into turmoil."

A ripple of alarm shivered down Aramis' spine at the apparent severity of the offense. "Whatever it was, I know you well enough to be certain that you did not intend for it to reap the consequences of which you have spoken."

"I knew what I was doing, Aramis, and I knew the possible ramifications of it, but no, I did not intend that it would cause harm to anyone. But that is exactly what would happen if it became known. I have revealed as much as I can; more than I should have. I can tell you no more."

"All right, then. Just know that I am here if you ever wish to talk."

D'Artagnan nodded to acknowledge the words, but he never intended to reveal the secret that he had kept hidden for so long.

"Now, on to the matter of our mission to replace the king. I am pleased that you wish to join us, but we must be sure. When the moment comes that our plan is enacted, can we be sure that you will not withdraw? That you will not change sides when we need you the most?"

D'Artagnan sighed heavily, a deep exhalation that seemed to come from his very soul. "I have given you little reason to trust me of late; I know that. But I am deeply grieved that you doubt my convictions; that you still think I might betray you."

"I do not believe that you would betray us, but you were most emphatic in your refusal to join us before. You said you could not betray your king. I have seen your devotion to the oath you swore to defend him."

"I have watched over him since the day he was born, and as he grew I had great hopes that he would become the king we have always wished to serve. But I have seen the starving people of Paris, I have seen the corruption within his court, I have seen the deceit he uses to obtain his desires, and I have seen his treachery. It does not please me to say it, but I have known for some time that he is unfit to rule. I had hoped to guide him toward being a better monarch, but my words have no influence on him. I know I may never be able to fully redeem myself in your eyes and the eyes of Porthos and Athos, but you have my word of honor: I will see this through to the end, as long as my one condition is met."

"To spare Louis' life."

"Yes. In that small way, even though I am participating in his removal from the throne, I can honor my oath to protect his life."

Aramis nodded. "I will meet with the others. The decision to allow you to join us is not mine to make alone. As I am sure you are aware, Athos will be the most difficult to convince, but it must be a unanimous decision: All for one."

D'Artagnan nodded. "I understand. Where is my horse being kept?"

See that long low building over there?" he asked, pointing across the street. "That is the stable. Behind it is a paddock. The horse is there."

"Then that is where I will be when you reach a decision."

Aramis clapped a hand on his shoulder again, then strode back to the house to meet with his friends.


	4. Chapter Four

_Disclaimer: Okay, I forgot all about disclaimers in the first chapter. The characters are not owned by me, and I am accepting no compensation. I present the story for entertainment purposes only, and no copyright infringement is intended._

_Author's note: __Thanks for the reviews! I sincerely appreciate your comments._

_I put a little more angst in this chapter when D'Artagnan learns of Philippe than we saw in the movie. I felt that the different circumstances warranted a somewhat different reaction from him._

FOUR

Athos and Porthos were seated at the long wooden table in the kitchen when Aramis entered the house. Porthos had placed his hand on his friend's arm, offering comfort that Athos did not seem to want, for he withdrew the arm and moved it to his lap.

Both looked up when Aramis stepped inside, and before he could speak, Athos said, "I knew from the beginning that my son's death was orchestrated by that murderer, but the confirmation of such a despicable act does not change the fact that D'Artagnan allowed it to happen, so do not come in here and tell me that I am not justified in my anger."

Aramis shook his head, wearily. "I am not saying that your anger is not justified, just that you are directing it at the wrong person." He sat down at the head of the table and gazed across the length of it at his grief-stricken friend. "Athos, you know as well as I that there is nothing D'Artagnan could have done that would have persuaded Louis to release Raoul from the service. He did the best he could, the most his position allows. If he is guilty of anything, it is believing that the king was true to his word."

Athos looked away, indicating that he did indeed know that, but was reluctant to release his grip on the anger that had consumed him, for it was only that anger and his need for revenge which prevented him from breaking down completely. "He should have joined us at the start. He should not have needed confirmation from Raoul's commanding officer as proof that Louis must be removed from the throne."

"I know I am asking a lot," Aramis continued, "but I am asking you to let go of this hatred you have toward him. D'Artagnan came here of his own accord to bring you that letter so that he might apologize to your face for the mistakes he made in believing Louis' lies. He is a proud man, and it is difficult to admit to mistakes such as this and to ask forgiveness, but that is what he has done. He seeks redemption from us, but especially from you."

Athos looked away. "You have no idea what you are asking of me, Aramis."

"I am asking you to give him a chance to make amends."

"I don't know if I can do that."

"Just try, please," Aramis insisted. "There is more: The column of Musketeers that Devereaux saw yesterday was there on D'Artagnan's orders to purchase food for the hungry people in Paris."

"Purchase?" Porthos asked in disbelief.

"With money from D'Artagnan's own pocket. I fear we have misjudged him on more than one count. I have gone on the assumption that he was unwilling to get involved in the plight of the people. My Jesuit spies have reported that some of the citizens told them that he promised to speak to the king on their behalf, but then nothing was ever done to help them. Obviously, the king rejected his appeals, for he has used money he had been saving for when he leaves the service, money he will need to live on when he retires." He directed his gaze at Athos once again. "And, lest you have forgotten, had he not come here to warn me, I would at this very moment, be riding toward Paris and almost certain death."

Athos folded his arms on the table top and stared down at the smooth wood surface, scuffed and chipped from years of use. "Perhaps he has an ulterior motive," he suggested. "Perhaps he seeks to gain our confidence, and then betray us all."

"You don't believe that, any more than I do," Aramis replied. "D'Artagnan has been our friend and ally for more than twenty years. He has made some mistakes, yes, but so have we all. He now offers atonement for those mistakes by helping us to remove the present king from the throne. You heard his one condition: That Louis' life be spared."

Athos gave a low, sarcastic laugh. "I heard him say that, and I expected as much."

"He says he has personal reasons for this, and it is a condition that we should have no trouble honoring, since I had never intended to kill the king, anyway. I expect this transfer to be made without any bloodshed at all." His eyes lingered on Athos again, troubled by the hate that flamed in his eyes. "I expect you to honor that."

"He deserves to die."

"Perhaps, but you seek instant gratification for what he has done to you instead of justice. I believe it would be far better to allow him to live a long life during which to think about the ills he has placed on others. He will have a lifetime of suffering, for he will no longer enjoy the life to which he is accustomed. For him, that will be worse than death."

Athos shifted in his seat, then finally lowered his gaze to the tabletop again and nodded his compliance, however unwilling.

Satisfied, Aramis continued, "Now, the decision to bring D'Artagnan into our confidence must be made by all three of us, and he understands that his acceptance must be a unanimous vote." He glanced at each man in turn. "My vote is yes."

"I vote yes, also," Porthos agreed without hesitation.

Athos did not raise his head, but continued to stare silently at the tabletop, not yet ready to commit to a vote. He was aware that the others were watching him, waiting for an answer, but he did not have an answer to give at that moment.

"Athos, you are the deciding vote," Aramis prompted. "If you vote no, we will provide him with a fresh mount and send him back to Paris. It is up to you, but I ask you, as friend, to think carefully about your answer, and vote with your head and not with your heart."

"Then I am not sure that I am of a proper mind to make a decision such as this right now," he admitted. "My heart bleeds with grief, and at the moment I am unable to separate one from the other. Yesterday, I nearly killed the man I once held as my closest friend, and I cannot yet feel remorse for my actions toward him. Seeing him here only serves to remind me of my loss and the role he played in allowing it to happen. I do not know if I can ever forgive him for that."

A quiet voice spoke from the doorway leading from the kitchen into the corridor. "Athos?"

They all turned toward it and found Philippe, the young man they intended to place on the throne, leaning around the door jamb, partially concealed by the open door leading into the corridor. As one, the three men swung back around to look at the door leading outside, worried that D'Artagnan might have followed Aramis back up to the house, but he was not present. Aramis quickly went to the door and closed it.

"You should not be down here," Athos told him, sternly. "We do not want you to be seen by him until we've determined whether or not he can be trusted. We are discussing the matter now."

"I know; I've been listening," Philippe admitted. In reaction to their disapproving expressions, he added, "I know; I should not be eavesdropping, but this matter concerns me, and I wanted to hear what you were saying. I was also watching from the window when you were outside."

"He almost spotted you," Aramis scolded, gently. "As Athos said, you should not have come down. You risk being seen."

"I know, but I do not believe he poses a threat to me." Shifting his gaze to Athos, he said, "I heard his apology and I saw his face when he was speaking. I believe he is sincere, and it is obvious to me that Aramis and Porthos believe it as well. It was almost as if you were trying to provoke him."

Athos looked ashamed. "Wounds fester when they are not confronted," he answered.

Philippe lowered his gaze to the floor, and all three men could see that the young man was disillusioned by what he had seen and heard from his mentor. "The wound that hurts you the most is your son. But that man came here to humble himself before you, to tell you he was sorry, and you told him to go to hell."

"You don't understand," he agreed. Turning his face away, unable to meet the boy's gaze, he looked toward the window.

"He says he wants to join us in removing Louis from the throne," Aramis explained. "The decision to allow him into our midst once again is important because he is the one most likely to be able to discern the differences between you and Louis. He has been the primary obstacle in our plan, for he knows Louis better than anyone else, save his mother. Athos has said it many times; his eyes are like those of an eagle. Few things escape his notice, as you saw from the window just now. He is the one who would have been the most difficult to fool. This is why I believe we should tell him about you and the nature of our plan. But, as you have just pointed out, this decision concerns you more than any of us. I would be interested to hear your thoughts on this."

Philippe was quiet for several moments, carefully considering his answer, his youthful brow puckered with concentration as he mulled over the things he knew about the friendship of the four men. "As a young boy, I heard the priest speak of the Musketeers and the four of you. Your devotion to one another and your courage are known all over France, and greatly admired. And here, in this place, I've listened to the things you have said about him, about his loyalty to Louis and his reluctance to betray him. But while you argue his motives, I keep coming back to only one thing: he believes that Louis is the only heir to the throne, that there is no alternative. He doesn't know about me. Perhaps he would be willing to accept me as Louis' replacement if he knows that I am not just some person off the street who happens to bear a resemblance to the king, but that I have a legitimate claim to the throne. I am the king's identical twin brother, born only minutes after him. You speak of D'Artagnan as a just and honorable man. You tell me: will he be disgusted by what his king has done to me?"

The three former Musketeers exchanged glances. Finally, Aramis nodded. "I believe he will be, yes."

"The three of you know this man better than anyone else, for you have known him many years. I have yet to meet him, but I saw his face and I believe that he is truthful." He gazed at them for a long moment, during which time none of them spoke, sensing that he had more to say. Finally, he added, "I wish you to tell him."

"It is too risky," Athos objected.

"It is more risky not to," Philippe reminded him. "If it is true that he is the one person who might identify me as an imposter, then it is imperative that he be brought in the plan." Backing out of the kitchen, he closed the door.

Silence settled over the room, broken only by the crackling and popping of the fire in the hearth behind Athos.

Aramis rose from his chair and went to the door and opened it again to allow the cooling fresh air into the house.

"Philippe may be young," he said, more to himself than anyone else, "but I am amazed at the way he watches, listens, and learns. In that respect, he reminds me very much of D'Artagnan at that age. And he is right. D'Artagnan believes there is only one legitimate claim to the throne." He shook his head slowly with great regret as he stepped back into the kitchen. "I have known about Philippe' existence since the day he was born. I should not have allowed this go on as long as it has."

"You could not have known that Louis would become such a bad king," Porthos said.

Again, the three men fell silent, each one lost in his own thoughts.

Finally, Aramis broke the silence again. "Athos, have you any more thoughts you wish to share?"

"I only want to protect Philippe. That is the most important thing."

"We all want that, and I am firmly convinced that the best way we can protect him is to bring D'Artagnan in on this matter," Aramis insisted. "If both he and the queen mother accept him as their king, no one else will question any differences in behavior that they witness from him."

Athos looked at him for a long time, carefully considering Aramis' logic. Finally, he asked, "What about the queen mother? How do you suppose she will react to all of this?"

"I will need to travel to Paris before the exchange is made to advise her of our plans. How she will react is anyone's guess, but I would assume that she will be overjoyed that her son is alive and out of the mask. What she may object to is the fact that we will be forced to incarcerate Louis. It is my hope that we can convince her of the necessity. Athos, the longer we drag this out, the more time we waste. We cannot keep Philippe hidden from D'Artagnan much longer, or it will interfere with his training. I must know: Are you with us?"

Athos dragged his fingers through his thinning hair and thought carefully about everything that Aramis had said. Finally, he nodded. "Very well. We will bring him into our confidence, but I will be watching him closely, and if he does anything to harm that boy, he will answer to me."

"All right. The vote is unanimous, then. Porthos, would you go to Philippe's room and bring me the mask?"

"What for?" Porthos asked, surprised.

"I want D'Artagnan to understand the full scope of what Louis did to his brother, and what better way than to show him the actual mask that Philippe was forced to wear?"

Porthos rose from the table and went up to Philippe's room, leaving Athos and Aramis at the table. The intense sadness in Athos's eyes tugged at the priest's heart.

"Athos, it hurts me to see you suffering so. I truly wish there was some way I could relieve your grief."

"So do I. Unfortunately, there is nothing that anyone can do. My son is dead, and no one can bring him back."

Aramis rose from the table. "I'll go bring D'Artagnan inside."

Athos nodded, slowly.

In the paddock behind the stable, D'Artagnan knelt down beside the gelding, and placed his hand on the left fetlock, feeling the heat that radiated from it. The joint was swollen and feverish, evidence that he had pushed the horse almost beyond its endurance.

Rising to his feet again, he patted the animal's neck with great affection and a sense of guilt. Taking hold of the halter, he led it in a small circle, testing its ability to bear weight. It followed him willingly. There was no limp, no indication that the animal was in pain, but he knew that to ride it before the swelling subsided would result in serious problems.

Releasing the halter, he allowed the horse to return to its hay. As he turned back toward the paddock fence, he saw that Aramis was standing there watching him.

"How is he?" the priest asked.

D'Artagnan walked toward him. "He will recover in a few days, but for the moment, I am afraid he is lame."

"Well, you're not going anywhere for awhile anyway, so it doesn't matter. We have taken a vote, and the decision is unanimous."

D'Artagnan cocked his head, slightly, surprised. "Even Athos?"

"He understands that we need you on this matter." Aramis jerked his head toward the house. "When you are ready, come inside and we will tell you of our plans." Then he turned and walked back to the house, picking up the bucket of water he had drawn earlier and had temporarily forgotten.

D'Artagnan gazed after him for a few moments, feeling surprised that Athos had agreed, then climbed between the railing and followed Aramis up to the house, curious to hear of the plan that the priest had devised to remove Louis from the throne.

They were all three seated at the table when he entered. Aramis sat at the head of the table, Athos at the foot, with Porthos seated on the other side. All of them were watching him. Aramis gestured for him to sit, so he sat down across from Porthos and waited.

Aramis began, "During our meeting at the monastery, I told you that I knew of a way to replace the king. It is foolproof!" He paused, and shrugged. "Well, perhaps that is exhibiting a bit too much confidence, for I feel certain that you would not have been deceived, which is why I needed you in on this from the beginning."

"You said at the time that you needed me, but you did not elaborate on why," D'Artagnan reminded him.

"He always takes the long way to come to the point," Porthos reminded him.

Aramis ignored him. "As I was saying, for many years, I have been keeping a secret, a secret known but to a few. That secret involves the birth of current king."

Surprise flickered in D'Artagnan's eyes, wondering what secret he could possibly know about the birth of the young king.

"The secret is this: The night Louis was born, a second child was also born to the queen. An identical twin."

Aramis had expected to see surprise reflected in D'Artagnan's countenance, but nothing could have prepared him for the astonishment he saw sweep across the younger man's face. For a moment, D'Artagnan's breath caught in his throat, as if he was temporarily rendered unable to inhale, and his eyes widened with disbelief. "Twins?" he whispered, more to himself than to anyone in particular. "No! That cannot be!"

"It is true," Aramis confirmed. "I was on duty that night, and I was summoned to a rear door of the palace, where a newly born infant was placed in my arms. That child was the younger of the twins. Faced with the prospect of twin sons born only minutes apart bickering over their rights to the throne, the king made the decision to eliminate that possibility by removing one of his sons from the palace. I was given explicit orders from the king himself. Under strict confidence, I was told to take the child far from Paris, where he would live his life in anonymity, never knowing his true identity."

Here, Aramis paused to allow the information he had just related to sink in.

D'Artagnan was breathing heavily, as if winded from a long run, and he could feel his heart pounding wildly in his chest and pulsing in his ears. He knew his eyes must be huge with disbelief, but there was nothing he could do to hide the expression of shock that he knew must be evident on his face. "The queen?" he asked. "She allowed this?"

"She was deceived. The king knew that she would not sit quietly by while her child was removed from her possession, so she was told that her second son had died moments after he was born. There was no reason to reveal his birth to anyone."

"But he survived?"

"Yes. Even then, I knew I eventually intended to become a priest, so I made some inquiries through the church and located a woman willing to care for the child. Financial support was provided to her in exchange for her service. When he was on his deathbed, the king revealed the twin's existence to the queen and to Louis. But the news that Louis had a twin brother was met with fear that his brother would someday challenge his claim to the throne, and he felt that the method his father had used to conceal the brother was insufficient. So our young king ordered me to do the most shameful and despicable act I have ever committed. I was ordered to remove the boy from the home in which he had been raised, and to take him to the prison on the isle of St. Marguerite, and there to place him in an iron mask, so that no one could see his face and bear witness to his remarkable resemblance to the king."

He had been concealing the iron mask on his lap beneath the table, and he now withdrew it, complete with the iron cage to hold it in place about the wearer's head.

"This very mask," he said, placing it upon the table before D'Artagnan.

The Musketeer drew a deep, shaky breath and released it in an equally shaky exhale of horror. "My God," he whispered. He felt as though he would suffocate, as if he could not draw in enough air no matter how deeply he breathed. Resting his elbows on the table, he folded his hands, lacing his fingers together, and pressed them against his lips to prevent them from trembling, hoping the others would not notice his distress.

"For my king and my country, I carried out my orders and did this contemptible thing," Aramis continued. He indicated the iron mask for emphasis. "Louis ordered this done to his own brother, his blood, and I am ashamed of the part I played in it. For the past six years, the boy has been living in the prison, his entire head enclosed in this cursed contraption, never knowing the truth about his offense. We – the three of us – went to the prison earlier this week and brought him here. Our plan is to replace Louis with the twin. It is an excellent plan, without treason, for he is also the son of the king! There will be no bloodshed, and no revolution. No one, save the four of us and his mother, will ever –"

Aramis glanced at D'Artagnan as he spoke and broke off suddenly.

Staring at the mask, his mind in turmoil at the things that had just been revealed to him, D'Artagnan felt the emotional agony building inside him to an uncontrollable level. His eyes welled with tears, blurring his vision, until they became so full that the tears spilled over the rims and trickled in two wet lines down his cheeks.

Astonished, Aramis looked across the table at Athos, who looked back at him with surprise that equaled his own. Porthos was gaping across the table at D'Artagnan in disbelief, and he shifted questioning eyes to Aramis as if to confirm that the priest was witnessing the same thing.

Aware that his anguish had been noticed and that they would ask questions that he could not answer, the Musketeer slowly stood up and turned his back on his friends. Then, without a word, he strode to the door and went outside, leaving the three men to stare after him in surprised silence.

Aramis followed him to the door, but did not go after him, recognizing that he was struggling with emotions that he had yet to reveal to them. He watched as D'Artagnan walked to the low stone wall near the stable and leaned his left hand on it while he dragged his right hand across his eyes. Aramis knew that he was wiping away tears.

"Of all the reactions I could have anticipated from him, I never would have expected that," he said, quietly.

Athos shook his head slowly, at a complete loss for words.

Aramis stepped away from the door to provide his friend with the privacy he would want if the situation was reversed. "During our service, the four of us have witnessed many terrible things. The question is, why would he be so greatly affected by this cruel act against a young man he has never met?" He sat down at the head of the table again to think and consider.

Athos and Porthos exchanged glances; they hadn't a clue.

Aramis stroked the beard on his chin in silent contemplation for several moments, then picked up the mask and gazed at it. "We were all horrified by the notion of a young man being locked in this mask, but none of us were driven to tears by it." He stood up again and placed the mask back on the table as he paced around the room. His hands were clasped behind his back as he slowly circled the table. "What could possibly make this so emotional for him?"

Athos went to the window and watched as D'Artagnan left the low stone wall and walked slowly down the road toward the stone bridge that spanned the river, apparently seeking some time to himself to take in what he had just been told. A frown furrowed his brow, and his fingers thoughtfully stroked the graying hairs on his chin. "Something is really eating at him," he said, quietly.

"What's he doing?" Porthos asked.

"Walking toward the bridge."

"But why?" Porthos asked, completely flustered. "I don't understand this at all."

"None of us do," Aramis told him. "I don't believe I have ever seen him so close to breaking down."

"The only time I have ever seen him so close to weeping was the night Louis was born," Porthos reminded them. "He was pretty emotional that night, as well."

Aramis abruptly stopped pacing. "The night Louis was born?" He paused briefly, then added, "That was the night he became drunk."

Porthos nodded.

"Could it be possible?" Aramis wondered aloud, then a moment later rejected the notion with a wave of his hand, as if casting the idea aside as absurd. "No, it is unfeasible. Totally out of the question."

"What is totally out of the question?" Porthos asked. "You are making no sense, as usual."

"Oh, my God," Aramis breathed. "It all makes sense. As impossible as it seems, it makes perfect sense!" He slammed his hand triumphantly on the table top. "I think I understand!"

"I wish I did!" Porthos glanced at Athos, annoyance rising. "Do you understand this, Athos? He continues to confuse me! He is doing that a lot lately!" Turning to Aramis, he demanded, "Why can't you just come to the point without first taking all these detours?"

Athos was frowning at Porthos's outburst, even though he was in complete agreement with him. "What are you talking about, Aramis?"

Aramis shrugged, raising his hand as if to fend off their questions. "He mentioned a few things to me in confidence, nothing that revealed the exact nature of his secret, but enough that I think I've figured it out."

"And?" Athos prompted when he failed to continue.

Aramis shrugged, apologetically. "Unfortunately, as priest and friend, I cannot reveal it, but I believe he will when confronted with it." He joined Athos at the door, but the Musketeer had moved out of sight. "We will give him a few minutes to get himself under control, and then we will talk to him."

"Talk to him about what?" Athos asked, impatiently.

"About an act of high treason," the priest replied, evasively

Athos exchanged an exasperated glance with Porthos, who threw his hands in the air in frustration.

On the other side of the door leading into the corridor, Philippe stood quietly listening to the conversation and nibbling his lip, wondering as the former Musketeers were wondering, why the news of the queen's twins had affected D'Artagnan so dramatically.


	5. Chapter Five

FIVE

Upon reaching the bridge that spanned the river, D'Artagnan stood quietly for several moments gazing at the slow moving water that shimmered in the morning sunlight as it passed over the rocks and flowed beneath the bridge. A light breeze stirred his hair and rippled the full sleeves of his white shirt. Of every possible strategy that Aramis could have devised, he never had reason to even consider the possibility that Anne had given birth to twin sons, and that he would propose placing Louis' brother on the throne in his place.

_Twins!_

The very word inspired a fresh burning of tears behind his eyes. That for years, Anne had believed the second twin had died at birth cushioned the blow of his own unawareness, but later, when she had learned the truth, why hadn't she revealed to him that there was another son? Why had she chosen to suffer in silence with the knowledge that her innocent child was languishing behind bars, his face cruelly concealed within an iron mask? How could Louis have committed such a vile act against his own brother?

A feeling of intense helplessness and betrayal surged through him that Anne had not disclosed the existence of her other son. _Damn it! I had a right to know!_ he thought, bitterly, brushing a fresh flow of tears from his cheek with his hand. _How could you have kept this from me?_

As his initial surge of resentment subsided, his love for her began to push back those feelings of deception, and he tried to gain an understanding of the situation from her perspective, for he knew her well enough to know that she had not withheld the information out of unkindness. It could not have been easy for her, he realized, to keep this terrible secret tucked away in her heart. She would have had reasons that she felt were valid, and he searched his heart and mind for what that reason might have been.

Over the years, he had occasionally seen her at her window observing him as he went about his daily activities. They had never acknowledged one another; never offered a wave or even a smile, for the eyes of others were almost always upon them. By then, she had become a recluse, rarely venturing outside her apartments except to take her daily walk to the chapel. His rare encounters with her had been brief, and she had only spoken a few formal words to him, always keeping her eyes averted.

And then, only a few nights ago, he had followed her into the chapel, and had been caught completely off guard when she had flung herself into his arms, clinging to him desperately as she wept on his shoulder from some unknown heartache that she had refused to reveal. The embrace had led to a kiss and the confession of love that had endured throughout their years of separation. Yet even then, she had not unburdened her heart of her lost son.

Perhaps she had longed to tell him the truth, but could not find the words to do so. Or perhaps she feared that he might confront Louis, demanding the release of the twin, and a Pandora's Box would have been set loose upon the land. For whatever reason, in the end, believing that her son was beyond help from either of them, she had chosen to suffer in silence rather than risk the ramifications of bringing the truth into the open.

With conflicting emotions warring inside him, he sat down on the stone wall, tucking one leg beneath him and resting his elbow on his knee. His head was bowed, staring at the rock and mortar wall on which he was seated, as he struggled to come to terms with everything he had just learned.

It was easy enough now to assume that Louis' twin brother was the person who had been watching from the window. Soon, Aramis would introduce him to this twin, this younger son of Anne who had seen so much abuse in his young lifetime, but it was a meeting he anticipated with both eagerness and unease.

So deep was he in thought that he did not notice Athos, Porthos, and Aramis when they walked up the road about fifteen minutes later and stopped before him. For a moment, they shifted uneasily, hesitating to disturb him, and waited for him to notice them, but for the first time ever, he remained unaware of their presence, indication in itself of how deeply affected he was by the revelation of the twins.

"D'Artagnan?"

He looked up in surprise when Aramis finally spoke his name, and his exhale was barely audible. He had known that in time they would seek him out for answers to the questions that had been generated by his tearful exit from the house.

"It is not my wish to cause you embarrassment, but the three of us are mystified by your curious reaction to the news of Louis' twin brother. It was upsetting to all of us to think of the cruelties done to that young man, but it seems to have particular significance to you. I would be interested to know what that significance is."

D'Artagnan looked away, shaking his head slowly. He felt cornered, like an animal caught in a trap, ambushed on all sides, and powerless to relieve his torment, for he knew that Aramis would relentlessly pursue the subject to his satisfaction. Anything he said to dissuade the questions would only serve to intensify the priest's curiosity about the secret he carried. It was about to come out; he knew that. But his natural defenses tried to hold out as long as possible.

When he did not answer, Aramis continued, "I have been puzzling over this ever since you walked out of the house, and I went back in my mind, considering all the things that have happened over the years, beginning with Louis' birth and your peculiar behavior that night. Porthos said that you became inebriated, something you have never done before or since."

"Inebriated is a polite way of putting it," Porthos corrected, emphatically. "He was falling-down drunk! Athos and I had to take him home and put him to bed, so that he could sleep it off!"

"My behavior that night was shameful," D'Artagnan responded, quietly, after a long pause. "I had hoped it would be forgotten."

"How could we forget it?" Porthos asked. "We had never seen you like that before! When word of the birth arrived, there was much celebration, toasting the new prince, but you didn't say a word. You just left the table. You took a bottle and moved into a corner by yourself and quietly drank yourself into a stupor."

"I suppose I carried the celebration too far. It has been known to happen."

"Not to you, it hasn't," Aramis reminded him. "Always, you have been the level-headed one; the only one of us who never over-indulged, who always knew when to quit. Yet this one event, the birth of a baby, drove you into a bottle such as none of us had ever witnessed from you before."

"As I said, I will forever be ashamed of my conduct that night."

"You are not telling us the truth, my friend," Aramis said, reproachfully. "You know that, and so do I. You were not celebrating the birth of the new prince, were you? You were dying inside, consumed by a personal heartache so great that the only way you could relieve your suffering, for just a short while, was to try to drown it in a bottle of wine."

Aramis could feel Porthos and Athos staring at him, wondering where he was going with his curious line of questioning, but to their credit they remained silent, knowing that he would eventually come to the point. He ignored them, his gaze riveted upon the Musketeer.

Again, D'Artagnan did not answer, and he continued to avoid their quizzical stares, gazing across the rippling water toward the distant hills, as if wishing he could escape into them, but was too emotionally drained to make the effort.

"Everything is starting to make sense to me," Aramis continued. "Just last week, you made the comment that some problems cannot be solved with a sword. You were speaking of yourself, weren't you, and the secret that you have borne for many years?"

"Aramis," D'Artagnan said softly, wearily. "Please do not pursue this."

Aramis' expression was apologetic, but his eyes were intense, like a hound on the scent of prey. "Forgive me, but I must. I think I understand what is happening here." He paused dramatically, still gazing intently at him. "The twins who were borne to the queen are not the sons of the late king, are they?"

Startled expressions flashed across the faces of Athos and Porthos. The two men glanced at one another, and it was obvious by Athos's parted lips that he wanted to speak, but he decided to see where Aramis's comments were going.

D'Artagnan flinched, noticeably. "Aramis, I beg you -- "

"They're _your_ sons," he concluded.

"What?" Athos exploded in disbelief, unable to remain silent any longer. "That is preposterous! Aramis, have you taken leave of your senses?"

Aramis instantly raised his hand for silence, and when Athos fell quiet again, the priest gestured toward D'Artagnan with a subtle nod of his head. They turned toward the Musketeer captain, who continued to sit silently, his face still turned away from them, but his eyes were closed in apparent defeat.

"Aren't they, D'Artagnan?" Aramis prompted.

The others stared at him, waiting for the expected denial that did not come.

Aramis nodded, slowly, accepting the unspoken confirmation. "Your silence speaks as loudly as words, my friend. This is why the news I gave you of the second twin was so difficult for you to hear, wasn't it? It was painful to imagine that your own child was suffering year after year in an iron mask, imprisoned simply because of his resemblance to his brother, the king. And that is why you have been so loyal to Louis, even though you admittedly disapprove of his conduct. Your devotion to him is not that of a bodyguard to his king; it is the unconditional love of a father for his son, a son you have never been able to acknowledge as your own."

Several more moments of silence ensued, during which all eyes were steadfastly fixed upon the motionless Musketeer, who remained reluctant to admit to his sin, but was unable to deny it.

"It's true?" Athos asked, sharply, his expression harshly condemning. "Are you telling me that of all the women in France, you took the _queen_ as your _mistress_?"

"It wasn't like that," D'Artagnan said softly, still avoiding his friend's gaze.

"What then?" Athos prodded, his eyes blazing with incredulity.

D'Artagnan cast a fleeting glance their direction, found them all staring at him with shock, and he quickly looked away again, unable to meet their reproachful expressions. Even Porthos was staring at him in slack-jawed astonishment, apparently too stunned to offer any of his typically witty annotations.

"I loved her, Athos," he said quietly in his defense. "I love her still. I will love her until I draw my final breath, even knowing that we can never be together." He sighed heavily, as if the weight he had carried all those years had suddenly become too heavy to bear. "She is my strength . . . and my weakness . . . for the one night we shared was enough to confirm that she is the love of my life. She holds my heart completely."

"And two sons resulted from that one night together," Aramis concluded.

"I only knew of Louis. Anne never told me there was a twin."

The others appeared startled by the fact that he had referred to her by her name rather than her title, for such familiarity with the queen was a serious offense, and they still found it difficult to believe that his familiarity with her went far beyond words and titles.

For the grieving Athos, it was one more fault to find with his former friend. "Have you any idea what would have happened if you had been caught with the wife of the king?" he ranted, his eyes bright with hostility. "You both would have been sent to the guillotine! No! Forget the guillotine --- you would have been shot on the spot! What the hell were you thinking?"

Porthos, recovering from his initial speechlessness, sought to deflect Athos's antagonism by injecting some levity into the situation. "I will wager a guess and say that he _wasn't_ thinking, actually," he quipped. "He was –"

"Porthos, please!" Aramis admonished. "You're not helping."

"It's all right, Aramis," D'Artagnan said. "I deserve all the condemnation and ridicule that you wish to direct at me, for what I did undermines the government of the country. The royal line is now tainted with the blood of a commoner."

"Eradicated is more like it," Athos said. "Unless you want to consider the old king's relatives, none of whom are fit to sit on the throne. Have you any idea what you've done?"

"I am fully aware of what I have done," D'Artagnan retorted, the first hint of anger that they had seen from him since his arrival. "God knows, I have lived with it every day of my life since then! We knew the risks involved, and we knew the possible consequences we faced. The truth is, we never intended to let things go that far, but an opportunity presented itself and we allowed our hearts to rule our heads." He paused, pressing his fingertips against his forehead, rubbing and kneading the tenseness that had worked its way into another headache. He was certain that someone had mentioned the young man's name at some point the day before, but he had not been fully conscious and could not remember. "What is he called?" he asked.

"His name is Philippe," Aramis offered.

"Philippe," he repeated, sadly, trying to fight the emotion that was building again. "She never told me there was another child," he repeated. "How could she have kept that from me?"

"For most of his life, she believed he was dead," Aramis reminded him. "And when she did find out the truth, she probably feared what would happen if she told you. You probably would have gotten yourself killed trying to free him. Her life was at stake as well." Reaching out, he placed an affectionate hand on the Musketeer's shoulder and squeezed it in a comforting manner. "Why didn't you tell us, D'Artagnan? Did you not think we would stand by you?"

"At this moment, you have no idea how much I wish I had told you, for had you known that Louis was my son, perhaps you would have told me of Philippe. If I had known, I could have removed him from the home in which he was being raised while he was still a child, before Louis ever knew that he had a twin. That would have spared him the horrors of the prison and the mask."

Aramis averted his eyes, guiltily. "Yes, had I known the truth, it would have changed things to the point where I probably would have told you that you had another son. All these years, I kept my own secret; a secret which could have changed your life considerably. And his. I am truly sorry, D'Artagnan. Secrets seem to have a way of hurting others, don't they? But where would you have taken him, had you removed him from the home?"

"Louis was always out of my reach as a son, but I could have claimed Philippe for my own. Had I known of his existence, I would have resigned my commission and reared him myself somewhere far from Paris, where no one would ever know. I could never truly be with his mother, but I would have had our son."

"The physical evidence of your love," Aramis said, softly.

D'Artagnan looked up, surprised that the priest seemed to recognize what he had been thinking. "It would have been enough."

A long moment of silence hung over them as they two of them absorbed the impact of the consequences of the secret they had kept so long, never knowing that their secrets were entwined.

Finally, D'Artagnan managed a bitter smile, and the moment of mutual understanding ended. "So, does it please the three of you to finally have discovered my sin?" he asked with a trace of acrimony in his voice. "That the great D'Artagnan is not the pillar of virtue that everyone believes him to be?"

Aramis shook his head, regretfully. "That is not why I sought the truth. You know that I have an insatiable curiosity when I know that a mystery is at hand. I have noticed for some time now that you have been keeping a secret, something that was eating you up inside. But I never dreamed of the magnitude of it."

"How many people know of this?" Porthos asked, curiously. "That you are Louis' father?"

"Until today, only the queen and I. I am sure you understand why it was not something that we could reveal."

Aramis was shaking his head with the incredulity of it. "I cannot imagine how you must have suffered all this time, watching your son raised as the son of another. Watching him raised with no morals, and no sense of honor or responsibility to others, since you, yourself, have always placed such a high value on honor."

"It has not been easy," D'Artagnan admitted.

"Our combined secrets have caused us both much grief," Aramis said. "It has been a difficult thing for me to live with, knowing the role I played in condemning that young man to such a miserable existence. I will ask his forgiveness one day, but now it appears I must ask for yours as well, and also that of his mother, for my role not only in his confinement, but also in keeping you apart."

"I must ask all of you to keep knowledge of this among ourselves only. Have you any idea what would happen if word of this were to become known?"

"It would be as you said earlier," Aramis agreed. "France would be thrown into chaos."

D'Artagnan's eyes suddenly focused on something over Athos' shoulder, and a startled expression swept across his face, clearly seeing something that he had never expected to see.

As one, the three former Musketeers turned to see what had attracted his attention, although all three of them already suspected the source.

Philippe stood several yards behind Athos, observing them quietly, his youthful face expressing his own degree of astonishment as he stared at the Musketeer. It was obvious that he had heard a significant portion of the conversation.

Slowly, D'Artagnan rose from the stone wall to gaze for the first time upon the son he never knew existed before that day, and his expression indicated that he was greatly unsettled by his resemblance to Louis. "My God!" he whispered.

"Philippe!" Athos exclaimed, stepping backward to place a protective hand on the young man's shoulder. "We told you to stay out of sight until this matter was resolved!"

"I heard you talking before you left the house, and I figured this concerned me, so I followed," he replied. "Indeed, I did not realize just _how much_ it concerned me!"

"How much of this did you hear?" Aramis asked.

Philippe ignored his inquiry. He had eyes only for D'Artagnan. "Is it true?" he asked. "Are you my father?"

D'Artagnan was clearly overwhelmed, almost to the point of being speechless, but he knew that there was no turning back now. Whatever the consequences might be, the secret he had kept for so long was out, and he could not, would not, answer Philippe's question with a lie. After a long pause, he nodded. "Yes," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

The two men, father and son, regarded one another in silence for several moments. Neither seemed to know what the appropriate response should be to such a revelation. Deep inside, both wanted to step into the arms of the other, to embrace as a father and son would, but they remained frozen in place, unable to react.

The eyes of the three older men darted from D'Artagnan to Philippe and back again. Athos was clearly troubled, wondering what ultimate ramifications this revelation would bring; Porthos was fascinated at what could have been a scandalous affair; Aramis recognized a need for privacy.

He nudged his friends. "I think perhaps we should return to the house and let them talk for a while."

Athos was reluctant to leave, determined to protect the boy that he had become so fond of, but with Aramis's prodding, he finally nodded, and they moved back up the road toward the village.

After the others had walked away, leaving them alone, an uncomfortable silence settled over D'Artagnan and Philippe. They watched until the three men were out of sight, and then both shifted their weight uneasily and looked at the ground, at the town, at the distant rolling hills, anyplace but at one another.

Finally, Philippe broke the silence, "I guess this must have been a surprise for you, to find that you had two sons instead of one."

Recovering from the initial shock, D'Artagnan listened carefully as the boy spoke, detecting distinct similarities in his speech to that of his brother, Louis. Even having been separated at birth, both of them spoke in a manner so similar that it would only require some tutoring for him to sound exactly like Louis. It was no wonder why Aramis was so certain that the exchange could be pulled off successfully.

D'Artagnan looked up and their eyes met, eyes that were the same shade of blue, but one pair was wise with knowledge and experience, the other pair very youthful, almost childlike in their innocence and curiosity.

"Somewhat," he admitted, unable to resist smiling at Philippe's comment. "Of all the things I expected to find when I reached this town, discovering that I have another son was not among them! Twins! Even now, I can hardly conceive of the notion."

"I hope . . . I hope you are not too upset by it," Philippe said, hesitantly. 'You look very distressed."

"I am not upset with you, Philippe. Do not think that for a minute. Of everyone involved in this, you are the only one among us who bears no blame." He gestured toward the gently waving grasslands outside the boundaries of the fortified town. "Come, let's walk together. We have much to talk about."

Philippe nodded his agreement, and they walked slowly up the road and then moved into the grass, strolling toward the open pastures. For several minutes, they walked in silence, each one wondering how to begin the conversation. Finally, D'Artagnan took the initiative.

"You must forgive my reaction at seeing you. Even though I have had a few minutes to adjust to the idea that Louis had a twin brother, I was still quite unprepared for the sight of you. Your resemblance to him is remarkable."

"That is what Aramis said, but he had seen me before, six years ago, so he already knew."

"Just before he left Paris, Aramis informed Athos, Porthos and myself that he had a particular plan to replace Louis, but I am afraid I did not remain long enough to hear what that plan was," he said. "I wish now that I had." With a smile, he ran his hand over the swelling behind his ear. "It would have saved me a terrible headache."

Philippe laughed, nervously, appreciating the humor that seemed to lighten the mood considerably. "How is your head?" he asked.

"It will be all right. I had a bit of a headache before you came up, but seeing you seems to have cured it!"

"Must be the shock," Philippe suggested, inspiring another smile from the Musketeer. "I was out taking a walk when you were brought in. When I got back, Aramis told me what had happened."

D'Artagnan experienced a sensation of relief that he had been spared the indignity of his son witnessing him at such a vulnerable time, being carried unconscious into the house.

Philippe shook his head slowly, troubled by the friction between his rescuers the evening before. "The physician was with you, and Athos and Aramis were in the drawing room. They were angry with each other, but neither was speaking. The tension between them was terrible. And then this morning, when I heard the things Athos said to you, it was like seeing a side of him that I didn't know existed. I was watching from the window."

D'Artagnan observed the boy for a long moment, still marveling that he bore such a remarkable resemblance to the king, but also detecting a hint of disappointment in the young man's face at the behavior of the former Musketeer, a disappointment that came from caring. "It would seem that you and Athos have become very close."

Philippe nodded, affirmatively. "Yes. He's been very kind to me. I think maybe we were drawn to each other because I never had a family, and he lost his son."

"He told you of Raoul?"

"No. Porthos told me. And I heard Aramis say that I remind him of you, when you were my age, so maybe Athos sees a bit of you in me also."

"You could not find a better mentor than Athos. He is a good man, and the best friend I ever had."

"A best friend, who clubbed you unconscious," Philippe reminded him. "And yet you bear him no ill will."

D'Artagnan shrugged. "He is consumed by his own pain, and I suppose he sees me as a representative of that pain right now. I hope he eventually realizes that I could not have prevented Raoul's death, but I also cannot hold his anger against him. His son was everything to him, and now that he is gone, it is as if his entire world has been pulled from under him. I cannot even comprehend that kind of grief."

They walked in silence for several moments, passing under a stand of fruit trees and emerging into the sunshine beyond.

"My life has taken so many turns this week that my head is still spinning from it all," Philippe said as they came to a halt at the fence which contained the livestock. "I was stunned when Aramis told me that I was the brother of the king, and even more so when he told me of his plans to place me on the throne. After living so long in the prison, I never could have anticipated such a thing."

"How do you feel about that?" D'Artagnan inquired, curiously. "How do you feel about the idea of replacing the king?"

He shrugged and looked at the ground, extremely uncomfortable with the notion of ruling the country. "It scares me," he admitted.

D'Artagnan nearly placed his hand on the boy's shoulder, but then resisted, uncertain if he would welcome the gesture from a father he had never known. "It is only natural that you would be apprehensive about this. A great deal of weight has been placed on your shoulders."

Philippe's eyes sought those of the Musketeer, grateful that the man understood his reluctance, for Aramis did not seem to understand at all. "I'm not sure I can do it. I'm not sure I even _want_ to."

"Have you told the others about this?"

"No. I owe them so much. I don't want to let them down."

"Has Aramis been pressuring you?"

A grateful sigh escaped the boy's lungs, appreciative of the fact that D'Artagnan had anticipated this without having to say the words. He looked at his father for a long moment, reluctant to admit it, but his face told the story.

"When Aramis formulates a plan in his mind, it is difficult to dissuade him from it," D'Artagnan explained. "He means well, but he can become very aggressive when it comes to achieving his goal. But this decision must be yours alone, Philippe, for this decision will greatly change your life."

"They haven't given me any time to make the decision," the boy said with a note of panic in his voice. "Almost as soon as I had the mask off, Aramis was explaining everything to me, and saying to the others how they would replace Louis with me. He never really gave me time to think about it."

This time, D'Artagnan did place a comforting hand on Philippe's shoulder, and was pleased that the physical contact seemed to calm the boy a bit. "You will take as much time as you need to make your decision, Philippe," he told him. "I will handle Aramis."

The tension beneath D'Artagnan's hand gradually eased as the boy began to relax. "Thank you," he said, softly.

Philippe experienced a moment of disappointment when the Musketeer released his shoulder, and he gazed at the man who was his father, remembering the things he had heard about him.

"There have been so many revelations in my life the past few days, not the least of which is that my father is the famous D'Artagnan. I have never really heard anything of the king, yet I have heard of the great D'Artagnan."

"Exaggerations, I am sure," D'Artagnan replied, modestly.

A rather mischievous smile formed of Philippe's lips. "Is there anything else I should know?"

D'Artagnan was amused. "Nothing comes immediately to mind, but if I think of something, I will be sure to let you know. And if you have questions, you are free to ask them."

Philippe leaned on the fence and considered the questions he might ask his father, but he was so overwhelmed that he was hardly able to think at all. "Does Louis know that you are our father?"

"No. For years, only your mother and I knew the truth. Now, you and the other three know as well, but I don't want Louis to know, ever. Armed with such knowledge, he could do great harm to you and your mother once you ascend to the throne. And no one else must know, either. This is very important; I cannot stress this enough. You have no idea what could happen to the country and to your mother if this became known."

Philippe nodded his concurrence. "I understand." He fell silent for several moments, then said, "I heard what you said earlier; that had you known of me, you would have resigned your commission and raised me yourself."

"I meant it," D'Artagnan said, seriously.

"Where would we have lived?"

"I don't know. I suppose I probably would have taken you back to my parents' home. I had no experience with children, and they would have loved a grandchild."

"Are your parents still living?"

"No. They've been gone some years, now."

"While in prison, I heard one of the guards talking. He had fathered a child to a woman he was not married to, and he wanted nothing to do with it. Hearing you say that you would have wanted me means a lot to me."

"I wanted Louis, too, but I had to watch him grow up from a distance. Oh, there was that initial jolt of surprise and panic when your mother first told me that she was pregnant, but the idea of having a family with the woman I loved was very appealing to me. Unfortunately, it was an impossible situation. You cannot imagine what it is like to love a child so much and not even be able to acknowledge that he is yours."

Leaving the pastures behind, they turned and strolled slowly back toward the village. As they neared the main road, they passed a group of young women, and one of them paused to cast a meaningful smile at Philippe. He smiled in response, but they passed each other without speaking.

D'Artagnan watched with interest as Philippe turned to look longingly after her. "You like the girl?"

Philippe blushed so deeply that D'Artagnan had to struggle to keep a straight face. "We've never spoken."

"That isn't what I asked." The words were spoken kindly and with a mildly teasing smile, and Philippe shrugged as he responded with a slight smile of his own.

"Yes, I like her."

"She obviously likes you as well. So, why haven't you spoken to her?"

Philippe shrugged, very embarrassed. "The time just hasn't been right, I suppose. There is always someone else around. I will speak to her some day . . . I hope."

D'Artagnan understood what Philippe was not saying. Having been kept segregated his entire life, the young man had no experience at all with girls. But although he felt sorrow for his isolation, he also realized that Philippe was a clean slate; almost completely uncorrupted. The priest who had helped raise him would have instilled faith and proper moral conduct in the young man. His only negative experiences were the six years he had spent in prison, but surprisingly it did not seem to have embittered him. He and the three ex-Musketeers would serve as examples of how gentlemen were expected to behave, and hopefully the memories of the terrible things that had been done to him would fade.

Turning back toward the village, they walked side by side up the narrow road toward the house.

_**Author's note**: Randall Wallace's original script indicates that D'Artagnan and Anne only spent one night together, so that is the theme I am following with this story. _


	6. Chapter Six

SIX

"D'Artagnan and the queen mother!" Porthos said incredulously when the three retired Musketeers gathered in the drawing room to discuss the events that had just transpired. "We were all still in the service when this happened, yet I never saw any indication that something was going on between them. We were together every single day! How could we have not noticed?"

"Perhaps we weren't looking," Aramis suggested from his usual place at the head of the table, the place typically reserved for the head of the household. No one challenged his right to claim the position of authority, for he was the only one among them who had known about Philippe and who was unofficially in charge of the plot to remove Louis from the throne, but he knew that none of them regarded him as their authority figure. "At the time, we were all caught up in our own concerns. Athos was dealing with the loss of his wife and raising his son on his own. You were courting your rich widow, and we all know what happens to your thought process when it comes to women. And I was struggling with the delays in my desire to become a priest. It is hardly any wonder that none of us noticed that D'Artagnan had his own problems."

"How did you know? How did you know that Louis and Philippe were D'Artagnan's sons?"

"I was not certain," Aramis admitted. "At least not at first. It was his reaction to learning that Philippe had been imprisoned in that cursed mask that opened the door to the possibility, for only a parent would experience so much grief at the suffering of his child. Then I started thinking about his persistent loyalty to Louis; the offended looks when one of us would criticize him, the way he held onto the hope that he would eventually become a good king. There were so many clues that I can't believe I didn't put them together sooner."

Athos was seated on a bench against the wall with a condemning expression on his face. "Aramis, you are not this all-knowing entity with an answer to everything. There is no way that you, or any one of us for that matter, could have ever suspected such a thing, so why don't you just admit it?"

Aramis did not take offense to his friend's sharp tongue. "I suppose I am not entirely infallible," he admitted with a pleasant smile. "Even geniuses make an occasional error."

Athos exchanged an exasperated glance with Porthos, then laid his head back against the wall behind him. "So what does this mean for our plans?"

"That remains to be seen, doesn't it?" Aramis asked. Resting his elbows on the table, he folded his hands together, his eyes shining as he considered the impact of this new revelation, and how he could use it to his advantage to achieve their ultimate goal.

"You are aware, of course, that he may try to talk Philippe out of taking Louis' place" Athos told him.

"He won't," Aramis said with confidence.

Athos shook his head, less certain of that fact than Aramis, but he made no additional comments. Sometimes, arguing with Aramis was like arguing with a brick wall; no matter what you did, you could not make it budge.

Silence settled over the room, and after a while Athos rose from the bench and began to pace the floor, going frequently to the window to look out, and then joining Aramis at the table briefly only to get up a few minutes later to pace again.

The tantalizing aroma of frying ham permeated the house, alerting them that breakfast would be ready soon, but still D'Artagnan and Philippe had not returned.

"I know you are concerned for Philippe's safety, but he is D'Artagnan's son," Aramis pointed out as he watched his friend's pacing. "That changes everything. He will not do anything that will put the boy's life in danger. Of that we can be certain."

Athos was forced to agree that Aramis's words were probably true. "I know. I am eager to get started, so we can get that tyrant off the throne," he added, bitterly.

"And we will," Aramis assured him. "We will! My plan can be put into motion now, and D'Artagnan will be here to help us. This is better than I could have hoped for, for he can almost guarantee our ultimate success."

"How?" Porthos asked.

"You heard him. He still loves the queen. If she still has feelings for him, he may be able to help convince her of the urgent necessity of replacing Louis. All this time, I have been uncertain of how she will react to our proposal, but with his help, we can do what needs to be done to assure success. And he knows Louis' characteristics better than anyone. That knowledge will be a tremendous asset in training Philippe to assume the role of his brother!"

"I think you are expressing too much confidence, Aramis," Athos said. "She may still not go along with your plans, because it involves incarcerating her other son. However bad he is as a king, a mother's love is a powerful influence."

"D'Artagnan may not like that idea, either," Porthos pointed out. "Louis is his son also."

Aramis nodded slowly, conceding that this was his only real stumbling block, one he had not fully thought through. "Yes, I will have to consider that possibility. His condition for joining us was that Louis not be harmed, but now that we know what his personal reasons were for making that condition, he may also balk at the notion of imprisoning him. I will talk to him about what is to be done with Louis. Hopefully, I can make him understand that it is for the good of all that we do this. And then he can help me explain it to the queen."

"I don't know, Aramis," Porthos said, worriedly. "Athos brings up a valid point about whether or not D'Artagnan might try to talk him out of it. This will be dangerous for Philippe. Should he be found out, at the very least, Louis will throw him into the Bastille. He may even decide to execute him to eliminate any further attempts at taking the throne. D'Artagnan may not want to put him through the risk."

"I don't think Louis will kill his own brother. The sanctity of royal blood is a powerful influence."

"Royal blood, indeed!" Athos snorted derisively.

Aramis fixed reproachful eyes on his friend. "Do you now think less of Philippe simply because he carries the blood of a Gascon rather than the blood of the Bourbon kings?"

Athos looked away, feeling a twinge of shame that he had made the comment. "No, of course not."

Aramis did not appear convinced. "If Philippe's paternity is a problem for you, we must discuss that now, before we proceed any farther with this. For Philippe's sake, we must all be united in our cause."

"We are united," Athos said. "I should not have spoken so brusquely."

"Then your rather hostile choice of words was simply another way to condemn D'Artagnan?"

Athos chose to ignore the question. "If anyone else were to find out –"

"There is no reason that anyone else should find out if we all keep our silence," Aramis interrupted.

"D'Artagnan and the queen mother kept their silence all these years, yet we found out," Athos reminded him.

"Extraordinary circumstances brought about by me, when I told him of the second twin," Aramis said, dismissing the concern. "There is no reason to think that something like that will happen again, since he now knows the truth. We must not break this code of silence. There is too much at stake."

"And if he ends up in the Bastille, we will rescue him," Porthos concurred.

Aramis made an approving gesture toward Porthos, nodding his head in agreement. "Exactly. We will rescue him, and take him to safety."

As Athos passed the window again during his pacing, he saw D'Artagnan and Phillipe coming up the road, their heads bowed in quiet conversation. He moved back to his bench and sat down to wait, wondering what had been said between the two during their conversation.

D'Artagnan and Philippe entered the house through the kitchen, and saw a woman at the hearth removing the slices of ham from the skillet with a fork, and transferring them to a platter. She looked up and smiled when they entered. "Your friends are in the drawing room," she said. "Tell them that breakfast is ready."

D'Artagnan and Philippe stepped into the corridor and followed it to the drawing room. As they entered, D'Artagnan looked at each of the three men, feeling strangely self-conscious and wondering how they would react to him now, knowing of his treasonous act. Athos stared back at him, his eyes typically severe, but he made no comment. Porthos' expression was sympathetic but bright with curiosity and interest. Aramis was smiling in greeting, but his smile seemed unusually uncomfortable.

"The woman in the kitchen said to tell you that breakfast is ready," D'Artagnan said.

"Her name is Angelina," Aramis said as he rose from the table.

"Angelina," D'Artagnan repeated. Where had he heard that name before? He nodded as the memory returned. Yes, Aramis had mentioned the evening before that she was an excellent cook, even if she was less than virtuous.

Aramis took the lead, and one by one, the others fell in behind him as he led the way back to the kitchen. As they took their places at the table, Angelina retrieved a stack of dishes from the cupboard and placed one in front of each man. The bowls and platters of food were placed in the center of the table.

When all were seated, Aramis said grace, and then they helped themselves to thick slices of bread, soft butter, peach preserves, eggs, and fried ham. Angelina waited, head bowed, while the priest said grace, then she quietly excused herself and went upstairs to make the beds. She would return later to clean up.

For a long time, they ate in silence. D'Artagnan was acutely aware of the furtive glances from the others, but each time he looked up, they quickly averted their eyes. Clearly, they were having trouble imagining that he and the queen had once been lovers. He smiled inwardly as he caught a discreet glance from the priest. Aramis, he knew, was dying to know what had been discussed while they were away from the house.

True to his nature, it was Aramis who finally broke the silence. "So, did you two have a nice talk?" he asked casually.

D'Artagnan laid down his fork on the edge of his plate and looked at the priest. "All right, let us please dispense with the small talk and the covert glances. There is no need for everyone to feel so uncomfortable around me. I am still the same man I was before."

Aramis looked embarrassed, a moment that D'Artagnan would savor for the rest of his life. "Forgive me, D'Artagnan. You are absolutely right. It's just that –" He shrugged. "Well, this has been a very unusual day with some very startling revelations."

"To say the least," D'Artagnan agreed.

Aramis indicated his other two friends. "I will get to the point. We are curious to know exactly where you stand. When you agreed to join us, you had no idea that we would be proposing the removal of one of your sons from the throne and replacing him with the other." He shook his head, in amazement. "We never imagined that was the case!"

"I'm still having trouble believing it," Porthos said. "The queen has an escort, an attendant, at all times! How did you manage –"

"Porthos!" Aramis said sharply, causing the other man to jump on startled reflex. "Is that all you think about?"

D'Artagnan could not help but smile at Porthos's expression at being rebuked by the priest, but he offered no explanation. He had no intention of sharing the event with anyone.

Aramis turned back to D'Artagnan. "We feared you might try to talk Philippe out of taking the throne."

"I will not try to talk him out of it, nor will I try to talk him into it," "D'Artagnan replied.

Aramis nodded. "Fair enough. Now that you've spoken with him, I am sure he has filled you in on our plan. What are your thoughts on this?"

"I had already reached the decision that Louis must be removed from the throne," D'Artagnan reminded him. "I am supportive of your idea that Philippe should rule in his brother's place, and I will do everything in my power to help him get there, but only if it is his wish. That is something we must discuss. We must be absolutely certain that this is what _he_ wants, because it is a decision he will live with for the rest of his life. We cannot apply pressure on him to do it simply because it is what _we_ want. The decision must be his alone."

"Well, of course it must be his decision," Aramis agreed, somewhat taken aback. "We discussed this with him after we brought him here. I think he was a bit overwhelmed by the idea at first, but I think he understands why it has to be. Is that not right, Philippe?" he prodded.

The young man looked uncomfortable beneath the gazes of the others, and he tucked his hands between his knees and stared at the uneaten food on his plate. "I understand why you want me to be the king, but you gave me very little time to think about it. And now things have become even more complicated than they were when you explained everything to me, because the information you gave me is incorrect. How can I possibly _become_ the king? I do not have royal blood. I have no right to claim the throne."

"You do have royal blood," D'Artagnan told him. "On your mother's side. Granted, it is not the blood of the Bourbon kings of France, but you must also consider this: if you decline and Louis is deposed by revolution, as I believe will eventually happen if a change is not made, everyone in the country who has a drop of Bourbon blood in him will be fighting over the throne. That would traumatize the country. Besides, it is also a fact that none of them are fit to rule, any more than Louis has been."

"This is true; a mob of idiots and glory-seekers, all of them," Aramis agreed. "And if other nations see instability within our nation, they may feel it is a good time to make a move toward war. There are so many factors to consider here."

Philippe continued to stare at his plate without seeing it, looking extremely beleaguered. "I want to do the right thing, but I must confess to being a bit fearful. All of you say that you will teach me what I need to know, but I've been locked away at prison for the past six years! I have no idea how to make the decisions necessary to govern a nation. What if I do something wrong?"

"We're not going to throw you into the lion's den, Philippe," Aramis assured him. "We, the four of us, will be at your side as your advisors. We will help you make the decisions until you gain the experience and confidence to handle them on your own."

D'Artagnan added, "You have been granted a rare opportunity. To my knowledge, something like this has never happened before. You have a chance to do great things for your country; to right the wrongs that your brother has created."

"If a change is not made, I believe D'Artagnan is right," Aramis said. "There is an undercurrent of discontent within France, and my Jesuit brothers grow impatient with the current government. There will be a revolution with much bloodshed. We have already seen rioting in the streets of Paris. It is only a matter of time before it carries over to the rest of the country as well. Hopefully, the food your father has sent to Paris will stem the tide of discontent for a while, long enough for us to get you onto the throne. I know that is a great responsibility to place on your shoulders, but you have the power to avert what could turn into a civil war."

Automatically, Philippe deferred to his father, his blood, even though they barely knew each other. "You want me to do it, don't you?" the boy asked.

"I said I would not pressure you, and I will stand by my word. I do not tell you these things in an attempt to sway your decision, but I must impress upon you the facts that we have given you, and you must think about them carefully. The decision is yours, and one that must not be entered into lightly, but I assure you, that if you decide to do it, you will not be alone. The four of us will be at your side to help you through the transition. But no matter what happens or what decision you make, you will not be abandoned."

His assurances seemed to have a calming effect of the young prince. "I fear that if I decline, I will be letting everyone down after they have been so kind to me."

"You won't let us down, Philippe, no matter what conclusion you reach."

"You would be with me at the palace?"

D'Artagnan smiled. "I am head of the king's body guards. I reside in a room near the king's chambers. If you need me at any time, day or night, all you have to do is summon me and I will be there."

Philippe next turned to Athos, a man he greatly admired, seeking his views as well. "You have never told me what you think. As a former Musketeer, would it bother you to serve a king who was not of the royal line?"

"If there is one thing that history has shown us, it is that royal blood alone does not make a worthy king," Athos said. "Blood is less important than heart. And I believe you have the heart of a king."

Philippe considered this, but still appeared apprehensive. "I – I need time to think about it."

"There is no time for that!" Aramis exclaimed. "We must know your decision, so that the training can commence."

"Aramis, it is only right and proper that Philippe have time to consider the things you are asking of him," D'Artagnan said. "Why are you in a hurry to do this?"

"We planned to make the exchange during the masked ball, which is only a few weeks away. That is the simplest way of getting him inside without being detected. It is an open invitation to nobility, and everyone will be wearing costumes and with masks covering their faces. It is our best option, but there is still much to do before then. He must be ready. Every day we lose will be critical."

"There is no reason why we should lose any days. We will train him while he considers his alternatives," D'Artagnan suggested. "Then, when he is ready, he will give us his answer."

Aramis was clearly displeased, but seemed to be finding no supporters. Athos and Porthos offered no comment, which suggested that they did not support his efforts to pressure the young man into a hasty decision. Finally, he lifted his hands as if in surrender. "Very well, then. We will commence with the training while Philippe considers what he wants to do."

"Thank you," the boy said, gratefully.

With that matter settled in Philippe's favor, D'Artagnan turned to Aramis. "You seem to be in charge of this operation. What are your plans to prepare him?"

"For starters, we need to teach him everything he needs to know to become Louis," Aramis replied. "Eventually, he can assert his own personality, but at first, he must make everyone believe that he is in fact Louis. Athos is going to teach him to use a sword, and I've been schooling him on posture; to carry himself erect and self-assured like a king."

Listening to Aramis's words, Philippe, who had been slouching in his chair, discreetly straightened his back and sat up straight.

"And Porthos is going to show him how to use a musket," Aramis concluded, unaware of the change in posture that Philippe had just made.

"Those are basic necessities for any gentleman. He needs to know a lot more than just that," D'Artagnan told him. "Louis has a demeanor that is his alone; a certain way of speaking, of looking at people, certain mannerisms, and expressions."

"Arrogance," Athos said.

D'Artagnan glanced at him, knowing that the comment was thrown out there in an attempt to offend him. Instead of allowing the remark to insult him, he nodded. "Yes; and arrogance. Philippe must master all of that if he is to convince others that he is Louis."

Aramis nodded, eagerly. "You are absolutely correct, and for that we are going to need your help. You know Louis better than any of us. Philippe will need to learn those mannerisms you spoke of, those odd little behaviors that we all have that seem insignificant but whose absence will be noticed by anyone who is around him. They will be important in order to convince those around him that he is the king, so we will leave that to you. He must also learn to ride a horse. I've seen Louis riding on the hunt. He is fairly accomplished at horsemanship. Philippe has indicated that he has never even been on a horse."

Philippe looked up, and for the first time there was eagerness in his eyes. Clearly, this was one lesson he was looking forward to.

"I was going to teach him that, since I am quite a good horseman myself," Aramis continued, "but since you are the finest horseman in France, superior even to me, perhaps it should be you."

D'Artagnan nodded to acknowledge the suggestion. His expression remained unchanged, but inside he felt delighted at the proposal that he should be the one to teach his son to ride. "He must also learn to dance."

"Dance!" Philippe exclaimed, wrinkling his nose in repulsion. "Must I?"

"Yes, you must," Aramis told him, firmly. "Louis is well known for his love of dance. The trouble is, I am not a very good dancer. I'm pathetic, if you must know the truth. One of the few things at which I do not excel."

Listening at the other end of the table, Athos shook his head, as if disgusted by the priest's conceit.

"I am not a good dancer, either," D'Artagnan admitted. "I am always on duty during the parties, so I never have the opportunity to dance myself, even if I wanted to."

Porthos shrugged. "I am the proverbial bull in a china closet. I am passable, but certainly not good enough to teach a king who is as skilled as Louis."

All heads turned to Athos, who had been listening to the conversation without joining it. Feeling the eyes of the others upon him, he looked up in surprise. "Me?"

"I have seen you dance," Aramis said. "You are as skilled a dancer as D'Artagnan is a horseman."

"I haven't danced in years!" Athos protested.

Aramis said patiently, "Athos, I know that dancing is not one of your favorite pastimes, but you are the most knowledgeable. It is for the greater good. He must know how to do this if he is to pass for Louis. And the lessons must continue, even after we reach the palace, for he must know all the current dances, and there are simply too many for him to learn in a couple of weeks."

Athos offered no further protest, and finally nodded his consent.

Porthos watched with amusement as Philippe licked a dribble of jam off his wrist. "I think perhaps some table manners would be appropriate as well."

Philippe froze, realizing that he had done something wrong. Slowly, he pulled his tongue back in his mouth and lowered his wrist, looking like a little boy who had just been caught by his mother while committing a serious offense.

"You're right," D'Artagnan agreed. "A lack of proper table etiquette will be noticed immediately."

Aramis turned to the Musketeer. "D'Artagnan, you reside at the palace ---"

"I dine with the other officers or sometimes in my room. I have never dined with Louis. I can teach him basic table manners, but to teach him the more delicate etiquette of the gentry, I am afraid I am as ignorant as he is. It should be a member of the nobility to point out the small details that will be detected by other aristocrats."

Again, all heads turned to Athos, but this time, he nodded his consent without protest, understanding that he was the only one among them who was qualified by virtue of his noble heritage.

"Athos is a count by birth," Porthos explained to the curious young man.

"A count?" Philippe asked, startled.

"I gave up my title and my lands a long time ago for reasons that are my own," Athos said, shortly, indicating that it was a topic he did not wish to discuss. "There are eccentricities among the gentry, and I will gladly teach you what you need to know."

Philippe nodded, gratefully. "Thank you." He looked around the table at the faces of the men who were going to help him attain the highest office in the country, if he so desired. "There is so much to learn. I just hope I can learn it all."

"You will," D'Artagnan assured him. "But we must work hard."

"And I do know basic table manners," Philippe added in his own defense. "It was difficult to eat while wearing the mask. I will strive to do better."

"That's all right, Philippe," Porthos said, apologetically. "I did not consider how it must have been for you in the mask. And you have dined with us before, and you have done well. Obviously, you had some training in your youth. Perhaps you just need some reminders, like not licking your hands."

Philippe sighed, clearly discouraged. "I knew better than that. I guess I just wasn't thinking."

"Don't take it to heart, Philippe," D'Artagnan advised. "Porthos is teasing you." To Aramis, he asked, "What were you planning to do today?"

"Well, I was planning to go to Paris," the priest reminded him. Reaching across the table, he placed his hand on D'Artagnan's hand and squeezed it with gratitude. "Thanks to you, the trip and the meeting have been cancelled. I'm awaiting word that everyone has been contacted, but I anticipate good news on that front. As for Philippe, I was leaving that to Athos and Porthos to decide. They were going to remain behind to continue the lessons."

"I was thinking we should work with the sword today," Athos said. "We worked a little bit on it yesterday morning, but we lost much of the afternoon." He cast a quick glance at D'Artagnan, letting him know that it was his arrival that had interrupted the schedule.

"What about the shooting lessons?" Porthos asked. "We should begin that, soon."

"Not as important as the sword," Athos told him. "He must know how to defend himself."

"Isn't that what a musket is for as well?" Porthos countered. "Besides, if he goes hunting, he must be able to shoot straight."

Philippe looked from one to the other, greatly distressed that his day was being planned for him. "Do we have to do anything today? After years of not knowing who I was or where I came from, I have just found out that I have a father! How do you expect me to be able to concentrate on lessons?"

"Perhaps the lessons could be suspended for one day?" D'Artagnan suggested.

"It will be a struggle for him to learn everything as it is without losing an entire day of preparation," Aramis objected.

"Yes, I know, but he's been locked away in that prison for six years, and I never knew of his existence until this very day. Perhaps he just needs some time to simply enjoy his freedom. You can't expect him to be willing to work all the time. Let him – let us -- have the day, and we will begin tomorrow."

"Spoken like a father," Aramis said. "It would seem that I am going to see some argument from you on his behalf, doesn't it?"

D'Artagnan could only smile at this, but Philippe was grinning with joy that his father intended to side with him on this issue.

Aramis glanced at Porthos and Athos, who offered no comment. "I suppose one day won't matter that much," he said, reluctantly.

Philippe spoke up. "I know that to be king, I must also be Louis. But sometimes, I just want to be Philippe." He glanced at D'Artagnan. "And I just want to spend the day with my father. If something must be learned today, perhaps it could be some of the mannerisms you were speaking of earlier. That way, he and I can still be together and I can still learn some of the things I need to know."

Aramis considered this option, and nodded his approval. "Very well, then. That sounds acceptable. You shall resume the fencing lessons tomorrow, and the shooting lesson the next day. But be prepared to work all the harder!" he added with a smile. "You will have some catching up to do."

"Thank you," the boy said, gratefully.

With that detail laid to rest, they resumed their meal.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Author's note:** I took a few liberties in this chapter when Philippe tells D'Artagnan of his upbringing, but I tried to keep it within the context of what _could_ have happened. The movie was quite abstract on this point, offering only a few hints that gave me some ideas to pursue. This is not my favorite chapter, but I felt I needed to cover some of these details. The next chapter will be better.

* * *

SEVEN

Upon rising from the table, the men returned to the drawing room while Angelina cleaned up the kitchen. Aramis sat at the desk beneath the window where the light was good, working up a schedule of things they needed to teach Philippe and who would conduct each lesson. Athos sat down on his bench against the wall and sharpened the blade of his favorite dagger, slowly and methodically stroking the long slender blade with the whetstone. Porthos, with nothing useful to do, sipped on a mug of ale for a while, and then dozed in his chair.

D'Artagnan and Philippe sat at the end of the table together with the intention of going over some of Louis' expressions and mannerisms, but both of them found it difficult to keep their attention on the lessons, and they frequently detoured onto more personal matters.

They spoke quietly, so quietly that Aramis could not hear what was being said, but he knew that they were getting very little accomplished in the way of preparing Philippe for his ascension to the throne. He cast an occasional glance at them, observing them as they sat at the far end of the table, father and son, getting acquainted with one another after a lifetime of separation, but in spite of his anxiety to complete the training process, he could not bring himself to spoil their time together.

A knock on the door jolted Aramis out of his thoughts, and he rose from the desk to lean out the open window to see the identity of their visitor. "Ah, Doctor Bonniere! Come on inside," he beckoned. Withdrawing his head from the window, he turned to D'Artagnan and said, "It is the physician who tended to you yesterday."

The priest left the desk and met the doctor at the door to the drawing room, offering his hand, which the doctor grasped in a friendly handshake.

"I just dropped by to look in on my patient," the doctor said. "How is he feeling today?"

Gesturing toward the out-of-uniform Musketeer, Aramis said, "As you can see, he is up and about today."

D'Artagnan rose from the table to meet the physician who had cared for his head wound the day before. He was a slightly portly man of average height, probably a few years older than Athos, but with a round jolly face and twinkling eyes.

The doctor looked pleased to see his patient on his feet. Stepping forward, he shook the Musketeer's hand, vigorously. "Excellent, Captain, excellent! I don't often get to see famous patients, tucked away in this humble little borough. Aside from delivering babies, farming accidents are my primary cases." He chuckled. "I understand that you came from a farming family as well, so I am sure that you are familiar with such things."

D'Artagnan smiled. "Farming accidents, or delivering babies?"

The doctor chuckled. "I am pleased to see that your sense of humor is intact. However, I was a bit concerned about you. You were unconscious longer than I would have liked. Aramis came by last evening to let me know that you had awakened, but we must make certain that there are no complications. That was quite a hard blow you took. In fact, you probably should have stayed in bed for a few days to rest."

D'Artagnan shrugged. "I'm afraid I am unaccustomed to lying around in bed, Doctor. I was up at dawn, as I usually am."

"I can appreciate that, Captain. A man in your profession must be kept very busy indeed."

D'Artagnan did not fail to catch the trace of sarcasm in the doctor's voice, and knew that it was a reference to his primary task of looking out for Louis. The doctor was obviously another Jesuit who despised the king that the Musketeer had sworn to defend.

"Still, you do not want to overexert yourself so soon after being injured," the physician continued, resuming the pleasant tone he had used before. "Even if you refuse to stay in bed, I do expect you to take it easy for a few days. So, how are you feeling? Are you experiencing any dizziness? Any blackouts?"

"Some dizziness last night, but none today."

"The dizziness was worse than he is admitting," Aramis spoke up. "I was going into his room yesterday evening when he tried to get up, and I saw him fall against the bedside table. Quite hard, if you must know. I feared he might have caused himself additional injury." He cast a quick, accusing glance at Athos.

The whetstone paused briefly on the blade before continuing, indication that the retired Musketeer was listening to the conversation and perhaps experienced a twinge of guilt, but he did not look at either the priest or the man he had struck.

"There has been none today?" the doctor inquired with concern. "Not even when you first got up?"

"No," D'Artagnan answered.

"That is good. Any nausea?"

"Rather severe nausea when I first woke up yesterday, but it went away after a few hours."

"What about headaches? Have you suffered any headaches since you awakened?"

"I had a very bad headache yesterday, but none today." He shrugged. "Well, I had a little bit of a headache this morning, but it went away." He glanced at Philippe, and a knowing smile passed between them, sharing a moment of private humor.

"Sit down and let me have a look at it," Bonniere ordered.

D'Artagnan sat down in his chair again and leaned forward, folding his arms on the table and waited for the doctor to instigate the examination.

The physician placed his satchel on the table then leaned over and with deft fingers parted the hair behind the Musketeer's ear to expose the injury to his experienced eyes. Shaking his head slowly, he clucked his tongue with a pensive frown as he examined the angry looking wound. "That looks very painful," he said, pressing his finger against the swelling, noting the black and blue tint of the normally white skin.

D'Artagnan flinched and grimaced, pulling away from the doctor's touch. "Yes, it is," he said, resisting the urge to swat away the offending fingers that continued to probe and prod at the wound with relentless persistence. His brows knitted together in a very annoyed frown, and following one particularly painful probe, he jerked his head back. "Ouch!"

"My apologies, Captain." The doctor said calmly, but he made no move to resume his examination, understanding that the Musketeer would not tolerate any more prodding on the painful injury. "I know that hurt, but it was necessary to see if I could feel any fractures. I am happy to say that I did not feel any."

D'Artagnan gave him a reproachful look that plainly said he did not believe the doctor was sorry at all, but he refrained from speaking the rude remark that was on the tip of his tongue. After all, the man was just doing his job. He hoped that was the end of the examination, and felt a twinge of annoyance when he realized it was not.

The physician turned to the priest: "Father Aramis, would you light one of those candles and bring it to me, please?"

Aramis picked up a candle and took it to the kitchen, where he inserted it to the fire in the hearth until it ignited. Then he brought it back to the drawing room and passed it to the physician.

"Look up at me," Bonniere instructed.

D'Artagnan did as directed, focusing his gaze on the end of the doctor's rather bulbous nose while the physician held the candle in front of each eye, starting with the left and then moving to the right, looking carefully into his eyes. Occasionally, he placed his hand between D'Artagnan and the flame for a moment and then withdrew it, his intense gaze never leaving the Musketeer's eyes.

Aramis leaned close to watch with the curiosity of a cat. "What does that do?" he asked.

"I'm just checking the reaction of his pupils in response to the light. You see, the pupil should expand in low light, and retract in bright light, and the transition between them should be quick and smooth . . . as his appear to be," he added with satisfaction.

"And what would it mean if they weren't?"

"Then it could have meant that there was some sort of lingering brain injury. But everything seems all right," he added. He blew out the candle and set it down on the table. "You were very lucky this time, Captain. I think you will make a complete recovery, but the results of a blow that hard could have been much, much worse. You must be careful not to re-injure yourself, or there could be dire consequences. I have heard that you Musketeers are a tough lot."

"Good thing, too," Aramis stated, meaningfully. "This incident could have ended tragically."

"It certainly could have," the doctor agreed. He picked up his satchel and draped it over his arm. "Summon me at once if you experience any changes in vision, or if you start developing headaches or any other adverse symptoms."

"I will," D'Artagnan said. "What do I owe you for your services?"

The doctor waved him away in a friendly manner. It was my pleasure."

"I insist. You must let me pay you."

"I would be offended, Captain. I consider it an honor to treat a man of your reputation."

D'Artagnan gave a single nod of acknowledgement. "Then I give you my thanks."

"That I can accept," he replied with a smile.

While Aramis escorted the physician to the door, Philippe sat quietly for a long time, deep in thought. After a while, he said, "If you had died because of this injury, I never would have known that you are my father. Of all the cruelties that have been done to me, that would have been the cruelest of all."

Still seated on his bench, Athos's whetstone abruptly stopped at the center of his blade as the full impact of his actions and of Philippe's words struck him with more regret than he had ever felt; regret that he could have been the cause of Philippe never knowing his own paternity.

Laying aside the stone, he slipped the dagger back into the sheath he carried at his waist, then pressed his fingertips against his forehead and shifted his gaze to the window, gazing out at the sunny landscape, deep in thought.

D'Artagnan and Philippe quietly returned to their lesson, and after seeing the doctor outside, Aramis returned to the drawing room. As he passed Porthos, he paused to cast a lingering glance at his snoring friend who continued his ale-induced sleep, unaware that they had even had a visitor.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Shortly after lunch, D'Artagnan slipped between the rails of the paddock and approached the black gelding. Philippe did not enter the paddock, but watched from the railing as his father caught the horse, then led it to the paddock fence, where he tied it securely to one of the posts to immobilize it.

With a skilled eye, he carefully examined each of the long black legs, checking them for soundness. Only one appeared to be problematic.

Squatting down beside the left foreleg, he cupped his hands around the swollen fetlock, appraising the degree of heat that lingered in the puffy flesh beneath the dense black hair.

"Damn it," he muttered.

Philippe knew that the quiet expletive indicated unfavorable news. Bending at the waist, he folded his arms on the center rail and leaned between it and the top rail for a closer look, but his untrained eye noticed very little in regard to the horse's condition. "Is it bad?" he asked.

"The other three legs seem all right, but there is still a lot of fever in the joint on the left front. I had hoped it would subside during the day, but if anything the heat and swelling is getting worse."

Curious about the young human who leaned into the paddock almost under its neck, the black horse nuzzled his long hair playfully and tickled his cheek with its whiskers. Philippe withdrew from between the rails and stood up straight again, smiling as he stroked the velvety muzzle. "Can anything be done for him?"

"I need to bring the fever and swelling down." He paused briefly to determine his course of action. Back at the Musketeers' stable, a bucket of cool water would be used, but here there were other options. "Open the gate. I'll take him down to the river and soak the leg in the water for a while. That should help."

Philippe unlatched the gate and pulled it open. D'Artagnan untied the lead rope from the railing and led the horse out, turning toward the river. Philippe quickly latched the gate again and trotted after them to catch up, falling in on the other side of the horse as they walked down the road toward the bridge.

As it plodded along beside him, bobbing its head up and down as it walked and swishing its long tail back and forth over its flanks, the Musketeer observed that the horse's stride remained long and casual, with no indication of a limp.

"He doesn't appear to be in any discomfort," D'Artagnan commented. "That is a good sign."

"What does the water do for it?" the boy asked, curiously.

"It isn't the water in itself. It is the coolness of it. It will sooth the swelling and reduce the heat."

"What happens if it doesn't?"

D'Artagnan shrugged, searching for a comparison that Philippe would understand. "The fetlock is similar to your own ankle. It can become bruised or sprained with overuse, and I am afraid my hard ride yesterday has caused a serious strain on the joints and ligaments."

Philippe continued to look worried. Walking alongside, he reached out to pat the horse's arched neck, stroking the warmth beneath the long, course mane. "I hope he will be all right. It would be a shame to lose such a magnificent animal."

D'Artagnan smiled. "I have no intention of losing him, Philippe, so don't worry. He will be fine. Everyone has different degrees of healing ability, and horses are no different. It just may take some time to heal."

As they neared the bridge, D'Artagnan led the horse off the road and down the gently sloping ground toward the river. At the edge, he hesitated, reluctant to step into the water in his leather boots. Afterward, they would have to be carefully oiled to prevent the leather from drying and becoming brittle. There were no rocks on which he could walk or stand, and the horse would not likely enter the water without being coaxed.

Philippe instantly understood his father's hesitancy, for the shiny black boots with the turned-down cuffs at the top looked very expensive. "Let me do it," he offered. Without waiting for a response, he dropped down on the bank and began pulling off his shoes and knee stockings. His breeches reached just below his knees, leaving him barelegged from that point down.

D'Artagnan only hesitated briefly, reluctant to expect his son to tend to the horse, but made no comment, accepting the boy's eagerness, to help. When Philippe was ready, he stood up with the agility of youth and reached for the lead rope, which the Musketeer handed over to him with a teasing smile. "Don't let him step on your foot!"

Carefully, Philippe waded into the shallow water at the river's edge, and he felt the gooseflesh rise on his skin in reaction to it. "It's cool," he said.

"Good. That's what we want," D'Artagnan replied.

Philippe took another step forward as his skin adjusted to the cooler temperature of the water. The soft sandy bottom of the river bed squished between his toes and the sunshine sparkled on the rippling surface, bringing back pleasant memories of his youth when the priest had allowed him to wade in the pond near the house in which he was raised. Tiny minnows swarmed about his ankles, nibbling at the hairs on his legs. When he felt tension on the lead rope, he turned back toward the horse, which had stopped at the edge.

The gelding pricked its ears and lowered its head to look at the water, reluctant to enter it, but Philippe maintained a firm grip on the rope and gently coaxed the injured animal until it submitted to his will and stepped tentatively into the shallow water.

"You don't have to go deep," D'Artagnan explained. "Just so that it is over the fetlock."

Standing shin-deep in the water, the horse lowered its head and drank deeply, then, when its thirst was satisfied, it moved its muzzle forward and back to splash in the water, playing like a foal.

"He's so beautiful," Philippe said. "I haven't been around horses much, but I've always admired them. He's one of the most handsome I've ever seen. He's black as coal, without a white hair on him anywhere."

"We're very selective about the quality of horses accepted into the service," D'Artagnan explained. "Not so much because of color, but for confirmation and stamina. I can personally vouch for the stamina of this animal. A swollen fetlock is minor compared to what I was afraid would happen on yesterday's hard ride. I feared I would break him down completely, and find myself on foot."

The horse lifted its head from the water and tossed its long, heavy mane, shaking water from its muzzle. Philippe stepped back to avoid being splattered on his clean shirt and smiled happily.

D'Artagnan watched from the bank, observing his son with the fascination of a man who, until that very morning, had been unaware that the boy even existed. He had heard of similar things happening to other men, of unknown children turning up years after a relationship with the mother, but he had never expected that it would happen to him. He had lived at the palace every day since Philippe's birth, and never once had the queen mother given him any indication that he existed.

"Where did you live before you were taken to the prison?" he asked, breaking the silence that had settled over them.

Philippe looked up, his easy smile coming once again to his lips. "In a small cottage in the country. I don't even know where, if you must know the truth. I was never told anything. I was a baby when I was taken there, and I was hooded when I was taken away."

"Who looked after you?"

"An old woman named Yvette and a priest, Father Laroque, but I had contact with no one else."

"No one at all?" D'Artagnan asked with surprise. "There was no one to play with as a child? No friends as you got older?"

"No. I was kept isolated from other people. I never had any friends. I never even saw anyone my own age, until I came here. I would sometimes see other people in the distance, but whenever that would happen, Father Laroque would order me inside the cottage. I don't think anyone in the village even knew that Yvette had someone living with her."

"And they did not think that you would find this strange? They never told you anything about why you were segregated from others?"

"Whenever I asked, they said it was for my own protection; that someone might do me harm if I was to be seen, but they never told me why, and I was discouraged rather strenuously from inquiring about it. Father Laroque would get very angry if I asked questions."

Several minutes of silence followed while D'Artagnan absorbed the information regarding his son's unusual upbringing. Of course, he knew that Aramis would have informed the priest about the necessity of keeping the boy's identity secret, but he had never imagined the degree to which they had kept him isolated.

During this time, Philippe could not keep his hands off the horse. He stroked its neck, patted its shoulder, and entwined his fingers in its long mane, all of it done with an expression of rapture on his face.

D'Artagnan watched with a subtle smile, pleased that his son possessed the same love of horses that he had always felt. "There were no farm horses at the cottage where you lived?"

"No. The cottage belonged to Yvette. She was a widow. The priest lived at the church just outside the village, but I was never allowed to go there. He came to the cottage to minister to us and to educate me. He had a mule that he rode and which he used to till the garden plot for Yvette, but I was not allowed to ride it. I was only permitted to give it water sometimes. It was a surly beast; it bit my arm, once."

"All the time you lived with Yvette, you never left the property?"

"Not once. The farthest I was allowed to go was a pond where the priest sometimes took me fishing just to give me something different to do, but I was not permitted to go there on my own." He averted his eyes, recalling a particularly unpleasant experience. "I was severely punished for that, once, so I never did it again."

D'Artagnan glanced at him sharply, clearly displeased that his son was punished for simply walking to the pond, a typical boyhood activity, in his opinion.

Philippe saw the expression on his father's face, and instantly knew that D'Artagnan would have defended him had he been there, a fact which lifted his heart considerably. "I realize now that they feared someone might see the resemblance between Louis and me, but back then, all I knew was how lonely I was."

"How did you pass your time?"

"I had my lessons, which the priest was adamant that I study, even though I often wondered what good an education would do me if I was destined to spend my life on that farm. I also tended to the gardens, milked the cows, and sheared the sheep, which earned my keep for Yvette. She cooked my meals, made my clothes, washed my laundry and bandaged my cuts and scrapes." He paused, nodding his head affirmatively as he thought about the woman who had raised him. "She was good to me, and I think she was even fond of me. She wept when I was taken away."

"And it was Aramis who took you to the prison?"

"He told me the other day that it was him, but I never saw his face. A hood was placed over my head until I was put into the mask. I thought it was to prevent me from seeing where they were taking me, but later, I realized that it had something to do with my face. That is why they went to such great lengths to keep me hidden. I don't hold it against Aramis," he said after a brief pause. "I know he was just following orders. The blame lies with my brother."

"It seems there are a lot of people who will have much to answer for in their final judgment," D'Artagnan said, quietly. "I regret that you had to suffer so."

"Athos says that it is up to me whether my experience makes me a better man for it, or if I allow it to make me bitter. I hope for the former."

"Athos is right. But it is not only our experiences that determine our value. It is how we respond to them, what we learn from them, and the choices we make. I have known you for such a short time, but from what I have seen, I would say that your reactions to the things that have been done to you will not only make you a better man, but a great one."

Philippe looked up at him from the water, his eyes shining happily as if basking in his father's praise. Then, he shifted his attention back to the black gelding.

"If you want him, he is yours," D'Artagnan offered. "Every man must have a good mount."

Philippe looked startled, for no one had ever offered him such a wonderful gift. "No, I could not take your horse."

"He does not belong to me, actually. I ride a gray stallion, but he is well known as mine and I did not wish to be recognized on this trip. I also feared he might not have the stamina to endure such a long, hard trip. He is not as young as he once was, so I left him at the stable and used this one. The black has not been assigned to anyone, so if you desire him, simply say the word. As king, you may have any horse you wish."

Philippe was clearly tempted to claim the horse as his own, but then remembered that he would be required to impersonate the king, who probably already had a favored horse. "What of Louis? What does he ride?"

"He prefers a white stallion of Arabian blood."

Philippe patted the black's finely arched neck, longingly. "If I decide to accept the throne, I suppose it would look suspicious to claim a second horse, when the king already has one."

"Not necessarily. Simply state that you like the looks of the animal, and that you wish him for yourself. No one questions the king. In fact, it might be a good idea to start with this one. Stallions can be a handful. We will work hard for the next couple of weeks, and even after we return to Paris, should you decide to become king, we can take rides together to work on your skills. After all, I am head of the king's bodyguards. No one will think it suspicious if we ride together. You will simply say that you wish to take some air."

The idea of riding with his father was extremely appealing, and Philippe applied this to the mental list of pros and cons as he weighed the possibility of accepting the highest office in the country. "I would like that very much," he said.

"So would I," D'Artagnan agreed with a smile. "All right, bring him back up on the bank," he instructed.

With a tug on the lead rope, Philippe waded back up to the bank and stepped onto the grass. The horse climbed up beside him, and immediately lowered its head and began cropping the grass.

D'Artagnan squatted down to stroke the horse's foreleg, sliding his hand down the shin to the fetlock, gently squeezing the puffy flesh. It was cool and wet from the water. "I expect to see a difference in the swelling by morning."

Philippe was bending over, his hands on his knees, watching. "I hope so."

He extended the rope toward the Musketeer, but D'Artagnan did not take it. "He's your horse; you can lead him if you wish."

Philippe grinned, happily. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

While the horse continued to graze, Philippe sat down on the ground and put on his socks and shoes, then stood up and held the lead rope up off the ground so that the horse would not step on it as it moved slowly about, plucking the tender grass near the edge of the river.

D'Artagnan moved back against one of the trees, leaning against the rough trunk to watch as his son interacted with the horse. He was in no hurry to return to the house, preferring the one-on-one time with his son.

"If I accept the offer of becoming king and move into the palace, I suppose I won't be able to spend much time with him, will I?"

D'Artagnan shrugged. "That is up to you. As king, you may do what you wish. However, you must remember that Louis is not known for being sentimental, so you will have to work into it slowly. Let everyone think that Louis is mellowing. Just because you are king, you should not assume that life will have no meaning for you. You will still be able to enjoy many of the pleasures you are now."

"I have had few pleasures to enjoy, ever," Philippe reminded him.

They fell silent for a time, watching the horse graze, enjoying the cool shade and the other's company.

After a while, Philippe said, "Father?"

D'Artagnan looked up, startled, having never expected to hear himself called by that title.

Philippe noticed the man's visible surprise, and gave an apologetic shrug. "I know that if I go to Paris I must cease referring to you in that way, but I have never known what it was like to have a family. Here, in this place, I want to know you as my father."

"That would please me," D'Artagnan admitted, then added with a smile, "Just do not get too accustomed to it, for it would raise eyebrows if anyone outside our circle of friends should hear you refer to me as your father."

Philippe smiled. "Yes, I suppose it would. What I was wondering; maybe you and I could go fishing sometime before we have to go to Paris. I enjoyed it when I went with the priest. It would be more meaningful to do it with my father, since I hear it is something that fathers and sons do."

D'Artagnan was clearly tempted. "I don't suppose I have been fishing since I was a boy. And yes, it was my father who took me. We will make it a point to do so. And Angelina will cook what we catch."

Philippe grinned, knowingly. "Porthos likes her."

"That is rather obvious," D'Artagnan agreed. "He is constantly staring at her in ways that is very impolite when looking at a woman. Of course, it is obvious that she encourages it. Porthos likes women in general."

"When will we start the riding lessons?"

"Probably in the next couple of days. Athos wants to work with you on the sword tomorrow."

"Of all the lessons I've had over the past few days, learning to ride is the lesson I've looked forward to the most!"

"With a little luck, perhaps your own horse will be ready to ride by then."

"My own horse," Philippe repeated the words, hardly able to believe that it was true. "In the prison, I could never have imagined the wonderful things that would eventually come to me."

D'Artagnan shifted his eyes toward the tall stone walls of the village that loomed nearby. "How long have you been here, in this town?"

"Four days," Philippe replied. "I cannot even adequately express my relief to get out of that prison. It was stifling in the summer, freezing in the winter, and so oppressive that I could hardly breathe at times. I could not see the sky, except a tiny bit at the top of the ventilation shaft." He shuddered, remembering. "The filth and the stench were terrible. We were not permitted enough water to wash with. For six years, I could not even touch my own face."

D'Artagnan abruptly stepped forward and cradled his son's face in both his hands. Gently, he rubbed his thumbs over the fair skin, examining him carefully, feeling the soft, pliant skin beneath his fingers. Philippe stood very still, allowing the Musketeer to turn his face from side to side to examine him, and marveled that the gesture somehow seemed so appropriate; a father inspecting his son for injuries, and he felt great affection in his touch.

"You seem to have come through it with no blemishes or sores," D'Artagnan observed. "Your skin is as good as Louis'. Certainly better than I would have expected, considering what you have been through."

"I cannot explain it. I would have thought it would be the opposite, but perhaps the mask protected my face from the environment inside the prison. There was a small window on the door of my cell, and it was occasionally left open for airing. Through it, I could sometimes see some of the other prisoners, and many of them had open sores on their faces and their arms."

D'Artagnan's thumb lingered over the younger man's smooth cheek, and he smiled, as if amused by the softness of the skin. "Are you shaving yet?"

Philippe experienced a twinge of embarrassment. "When they removed the mask, I had some long thin hairs on my chin and along my jaw, but some of Aramis's helpers shaved it off for me. It was the first time a razor had ever touched my face. Athos showed me how to use it without cutting myself. It isn't growing very fast, though," he admitted.

D'Artagnan laughed amiably as he withdrew his hands. "You get that from me; my beard grows slowly, as well. It will come, in time, though."

As they stood facing one another, Philippe gazed into the eyes of his father, as if searching for something, and a pleased smile turned up the corners of his mouth as he found it. "They both had dark eyes, the priest and the old woman," he said. "Because I was isolated from everyone else, I didn't realize that eyes come in different colors." He shrugged, feeling embarrassed. "I know, that sounds silly, but I was just a child who did not know any better. I would look at my reflection and see my blue eyes and wonder if there was anyone else who had eyes like mine. And now, as I look at you, I see my eyes looking back at me through yours."

"They are my mother's eyes; your grandmother. I see much of her in you."

"I wish I could have known her."

"So do I."

After the few moments of extreme familiarity, D'Artagnan backed away again, and leaned back against his tree, watching as Philippe patted the horse, content for the moment with simply being in his son's company.


	8. Chapter Eight

EIGHT

For the remainder of the afternoon, D'Artagnan and Philippe continued to enjoy each other's company while the black gelding contentedly cropped the grass at the river's edge.

The sun was sinking lower in the sky, and the long shadows of evening stretched across the landscape. Meals cooking over the fires in the hearths of the homes inside the village drifted along the breeze, alerting the Musketeer and his son that it was time to return to the house. Darkness would soon fall, yet both were reluctant to leave the quiet place that they had shared during the afternoon, and they lingered a few minutes longer, savoring every moment that they had together, as if trying to make up for the time that had been lost to them.

Finally, as the sun began to slip behind the hill on the western horizon and dusk began to settle over the countryside, D'Artagnan at last acknowledged the late hour. "I think we had better head back, before Aramis comes looking for us."

Philippe nodded in reluctant agreement. "I have enjoyed spending this day with you, Father," he said, softly.

D'Artagnan looked into the boy's kind blue eyes and felt a tug on his heart. Already, feelings of affection for this lost son were stirring inside him, accompanied by the new and wondrous sensations of openly being a father for the first time in his life. He wanted to take the young man into his arms and embrace him as he had never been able to do with Louis, to express all the love that had been kept inside for so long, but he was unable to do so. His paternal feelings for Louis were strong, but had always been carefully suppressed, for to display too much personal fondness for the young king would be inappropriate, and it was those years of carefully concealing his sentiments which prevented him from openly displaying his growing affection for Philippe. It had been a way of life for so long that, for the moment, he was uncomfortable with the notion of altering it.

"I have enjoyed it as well," he replied, wishing he could have said more.

Unaware of D'Artagnan's inner struggle, Philippe turned to the horse and pulled its head up from the grass.

The gelding resisted for a moment, unwilling to leave the patch of tender grass, but a firm pull on the rope succeeded in asserting dominance over the animal, and it fell in step beside him as he started walking back toward the road that led to the village.

D'Artagnan walked beside his son, his mind still reeling from the events that had been brought to him that day. More than anything, he wished that Anne could have been there to share the day with him and Philippe, but he knew that could never happen. Once they returned to Paris, he must fall back into the role of subservient body guard, keeping a respectful distance from the royal family while maintaining constant vigilance. He accepted the role he must play, for that was the price of his indiscretion, and he was grateful that his profession at least allowed him to be near his son and the boy's mother. As painful as his professional distance could sometimes be, it was better than the alternative of never seeing them at all.

When they reached the paddock area behind the stable, they found that several men were feeding the horses. The village horses were housed in roomy box stalls inside a long low stable constructed of the same stone as the houses. Lanterns brightened the interior of the structure as the men worked, and the black lifted its head and whinnied eagerly as it heard the bins of grain opened up.

A worker stepped outside the wide double doors to see which horse was out, and spotted the two men approaching. Recognizing the Musketeer, he moved forward to take the horse. "I will feed him for you, _Monsieur_, and bed him down in the stable," he offered, reaching for the rope. "Father Aramis is holding supper for you."

Philippe glanced at D'Artagnan for instruction, and he nodded affirmatively. Almost unwillingly, Philippe turned the rope of his horse over to the man and looked longingly after it as it was led away with a spring to its step as it trotted alongside the worker, impatient to get inside for its feed.

D'Artagnan watched with a knowing smile. "He will be all right. You can take him down to the river again in the morning, if you wish to spend some more time with him."

"Athos will want to work on the sword tomorrow."

"Then you can take him down at a time when you are not working. You won't be expected to work every hour of every day," D'Artagnan reminded him. "You will have some time to yourself."

The kitchen door was open, and they entered to find that Athos, Porthos, and Aramis were already seated at the table, waiting for them. The three men looked up as they stepped through the door.

"About time," Athos muttered, resentfully.

Porthos swatted him on the arm, a silent reminder that rudeness was not necessary. Athos flashed a resentful glare his direction, but said no more.

"We saw you coming up the road," Aramis said. "You were gone a long time. We were starting to wonder about you."

"I'm sorry we were so late," D'Artagnan apologized as he went to the wash table to wash his hands in the basin of water. "We decided to soak the horse's leg in the river to cool it."

"How is he doing?" Porthos asked.

"The left front fetlock is still swollen, but the cool water should help take some of the fever out of it."

"I remember when the four of us all rode black horses," Porthos said, thoughtfully. "That was a long time ago. I miss those days when we all had a purpose." He sighed, sadly. "I find I do not have enough to fill my days, anymore."

D'Artagnan tossed the dirty water out the open window and poured fresh water into the basin for Philippe. While he dried his hands on a towel, Philippe stepped forward to wash his hands.

D'Artagnan sat down near Aramis, preferring to remain a respectful distance from Athos, who was seated at the foot of the table. Ordinarily, he would have taken a seat near his best friend, but he knew that Athos still wanted nothing to do with him, so it was best not to provoke him.

Philippe washed his hands quickly and grabbed the towel. "He's going to let me have the horse!" he said over his shoulder, his enthusiasm impossible to contain.

"It isn't my horse," D'Artagnan explained. "I chose to ride him on this trip because he's younger and bigger and less recognizable than my gray. All Philippe has to do is state that he desires the animal, and it is his."

"It is a handsome animal," Aramis said. "He will serve you well, Philippe."

When Philippe was seated at the table beside his father, the priest bowed his head, indicating that the others should do the same. Speaking softly, he said grace, and when they prayer of thanks was completed, they helped themselves to the bowls and platters of food.

D'Artagnan observed the heaping bowls and platters of vegetables, bread, and roasted chicken. "There is so much," he commented. "I had no idea this community was so wealthy."

"There is plenty of food in this area," Aramis explained. "Louis has not yet confiscated it for the army's use. The land is fertile and the crops are bountiful. Life is good here."

"Is everyone in this town a Jesuit?"

Aramis looked up quickly, surprised that he had asked the question. Athos had also looked up, giving a warning glare to Aramis from the opposite end of the table, but the priest chose to ignore it. "Everyone here is not necessary a Jesuit, but they all have ties to the order in one way or another, and all are in favor of deposing Louis," Aramis replied. "The members of the order have migrated here over the past few years, and I dare say they have turned this town into a very nice place to live with law-abiding people. The only place where roughness exists is the tavern and the brothel. You have already seen the tavern. The brothel is next door to it, and tends to attract some unseemly men from outlying areas. Even Porthos won't go there."

Porthos had been quietly eating his supper, but his eyes darted up when he heard his name. "There isn't much point in going there, anyway," he said, quietly. Lifting his glass of wine, he quickly drained it, then reached for the jug again to refill the glass. "There is nothing for me there."

D'Artagnan glanced across the table at him, thinking that a particularly odd comment for him to make, but the table was not an appropriate place to discuss such matters, so he turned his attention back to Aramis and asked, "Outlying areas?"

"Yes. The next nearest village is some distance away, but there are some farmers, winemakers and a few country estates nearby. They come here for supplies and entertainment. Most of them are decent people, but some are a bit more primitive than what we typically see here in the village."

"Was it you who purchased the bulk of the tavern owner's stock of fine wine?" he asked with a sly smile.

"How did you know that?" Aramis asked.

"I could barely choke down the drink he gave me yesterday. Very bitter. He explained that someone had purchased most of his better stock. Given your taste for fine wine, I assumed it would be you."

"I had forgotten that your powers of deduction were as good as your observation skills. Yes, it was I. He attempted to sell me that same . . . sediment, for lack of a better word . . . that he sold you. Well, I would have none of that, I tell you! Especially not for the price he was asking! Highway robbery! I insisted on the best he had, and at a reasonable price, too."

"I finally helped to persuade him," Porthos said.

D'Artagnan's lips turned up in a knowing smile. "I won't even ask how you did that."

"At least that is one thing I can still do satisfactorily," Porthos lamented.

Again, D'Artagnan glanced across the table at his old friend. It was becoming apparent that some sort of personal depression had settled over Porthos during the afternoon. Turning back to the priest again, he said, "Aramis, I would ask a favor."

"Anything."

"Call the Jesuits off of Louis. We are going to replace him; there is no need for these assassination attempts."

"I already have, D'Artagnan," the priest told him. "When you announced that you would join us, and the revelation that Louis and Philippe are your sons came out, I sent out word that a new plan was in the works, and that there should be no more attempts on his life."

"Thank you," the Musketeer said, gratefully, greatly relieved that he would no longer have to worry about his other son being assassinated in his absence. "I have looked after him since he was born, and it has been weighing heavily on my mind that I am not there to protect him."

"The Jesuits will obey their leader," Aramis assured him. "So put your mind at ease and enjoy the time you have with Philippe." He smiled, observing the look that passed between the father and son. "I would say you already are."

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After supper, the men returned to the drawing room to talk for a while, but as the evening wore on, they soon began to grow weary. Angelina had long since returned to the home she shared with her two sisters, and Aramis withdrew his Bible from the desk drawer and read silently for awhile before retiring for the night. Philippe sat yawning at the table, and D'Artagnan stood silently at the window, gazing out into the night, pondering his own private thoughts.

Porthos had pushed a chair against the wall, so that he could lean his head back for support, and had fallen asleep there. His eyes were closed, and his mouth was open, snoring with such loud grating intakes of air that D'Artagnan turned away from the window to exchange amused smiles with Aramis.

With each snore, Philippe's face turned a deeper shade of red as he struggled to keep from laughing aloud. His body was shaking with suppressed laughter, and he kept his hand firmly clamped over his mouth.

Athos, however, found no humor in the noise, and when he had finally had enough, he shoved him roughly. Porthos swayed in his chair, nearly toppling from it, and awakened with a gasping snort that made Aramis, D'Artagnan, and Philippe laugh.

Focusing his sleepy eyes on Athos, he demanded, "What did you do that for?"

"You are snoring loudly enough to shake the foundations of the building," Athos told him.

"I do not snore!" Porthos retorted, indignantly. He glanced quickly at the other men in the room, and found that all were grinning at him, with the exception of Athos, who continued to scowl. "Do I?"

"This is an old building," Philippe said. "I am not certain that it would withstand much more!"

"A platoon of mounted Musketeers on a cobblestone road is quieter," D'Artagnan agreed, inspiring a fresh burst of laughter from Philippe.

"No, you are teasing me," Porthos insisted. He yawned, and his eyelids drooped, wearily. "I believe I will retire for the night." He stood up.

"Goodnight, then," Aramis told him.

After Porthos had stumbled from the room, Philippe also stood up. "I think I will turn in as well." His gaze lingered on D'Artagnan. "Goodnight."

"Good night," the others responded.

"I will see you in the morning, Philippe," D'Artagnan added.

"I will walk up with you," Athos said.

After Athos and Philippe had left the room, D'Artagnan pulled a chair closer to the priest and sat down facing him. "What is going on with Porthos?"

Aramis closed his Bible and set it aside. The serious nature of this question demanded full attention to it. His expression was solemn as he turned to face the Musketeer. "With your own troubles, I did not think you would notice that Porthos is having problems of his own."

"How could I not notice? I've never seen him like this before. Always before, he had a passion for life, as if the day was never long enough for him to accomplish everything he wanted to do. Now, it is as if he has given up."

"In a way, I fear he has. For months now, Porthos has been suffering from the opinion that he is worthless, that his life is no longer worth living. He has been moping around, whining about getting old, and complaining because nothing interests him anymore. Some days are better than others, but he has had a few that have been very bad. He even tried to kill himself a couple of days ago."

Concern immediately flashed across D'Artagnan's face at the news that his old friend had attempted to take his own life. "Suicide?"

Aramis nodded, slowly. "He had been talking about hanging himself for weeks, and I decided that he probably meant it. Figuring he would probably use one of the beams in the barn, where he could jump from the loft, I sawed halfway through the central support beam, since it is the strongest beam and the one that he would most likely use. I then hung a rope from it at the point where I had sawed it so that he would use the rope at that particular spot. Two nights ago, he climbed into the loft, tied the rope around his neck, and jumped."

D'Artagnan winced at the image that came to his mind.

Aramis continued, "When he hit the end of the rope, the beam broke and he fell to the ground. The good news is that it seemed to get the notion of suicide out of his head, for the time being, anyway."

"Wait a minute," D'Artagnan said, staring at him, incredulously. "You sawed the central support beam? That is what holds up the entire structure! Didn't you know that when the beam broke, the barn would collapse?"

Aramis shrugged, and an amused smile fleeted across his face. "Well, no, not at the time. I do now, of course. You saw the remains of the barn out there. The whole structure fell in on him. Fortunately, there was no livestock inside it at the time."

"He was not hurt?"

"No, and now that he's gotten the idea of killing himself out of his head, it is my hope that he won't try it again." He began to chuckle softly, a peculiar reaction, in D'Artagnan's opinion. Noticing his friend's disapproving expression, Aramis leaned closer to the Musketeer. "He was stark naked when he made the attempt," he said, grinning with amusement.

"Naked?"

"He was wearing nothing except his boots. It was not a pretty sight, I assure you," Aramis said. "Athos and I saw him from the window as he walked down the street to the barn, his backside shining in the moonlight. You should have seen the look on Athos's face!" He laughed heartily at the remembrance. "He could hardly believe what he was seeing!"

"Why did he take his clothes off to hang himself?" D'Artagnan asked.

"From what I could gather, he had been attempting to entertain himself in an empty stall in the horse stable with Angelina and her sisters. Yes, all three of them at once," he added in response to the quizzical lifting of D'Artagnan's eyebrows. "Apparently, he was not able to . . . respond favorably to them, if you understand my meaning, and it must have pushed him over the edge. He simply got up and walked to the barn without bothering to dress himself."

D'Artagnan nodded. "I see." He leaned back in the chair and thoughtfully stroked his well-groomed mustache. "That explains some of the peculiar comments he has made this evening. Is that why he has been drinking so much? Because he thinks his usefulness is over?"

"You have noticed his self-depreciating comments too, eh?" Aramis asked. "Yes, rarely is he completely sober these days. Drink is apparently the only thing in which he can find pleasure."

"He seemed fine this morning, even happy."

"Your arrival took his mind off his problems for a bit, I suppose."

"When Philippe and I came back from the river this evening, there was a profound difference in him during just that short time. What happened?"

"He and Angelina spent part of the afternoon together. I suspect things did not go according to his expectations, and apparently they have not gone well for quite some time. I am at a loss as to what to do about him anymore. Nothing I say seems to have any influence on him. Here we are on this important mission, trying to instruct Philippe to take the reins of the country, and Porthos is absolutely no help whatsoever. Instead, he has become more of a hindrance, another burden to carry." Reaching out, he grasped his friend by the wrist. "I am sincerely grateful that you have decided to join us. At least now, with another level head to contribute to the cause, maybe Philippe will have a chance." He smiled, encouragingly. "What about you? This has been an extraordinary day for you. How are you holding up?"

"I am still in a state of shock," he admitted.

Aramis's smile broadened. "So are we."

"There were two," he said, softly, shaking his head slowly in disbelief. "Last night when I retired, I had only one son; tonight, I have two! All these years, I have maintained constant vigilance over Louis, always aware that he was my son, never knowing that I had another son, one who looks so much like Louis that it nearly took my breath away when I saw him!"

"I regret that you had to find out the way you did. That was a very cruel way to tell you. I assure you that had I known, I would have found a different manner of informing you. I felt I needed to go to greater lengths to convince you, which is why I showed you the mask."

"You had no way of knowing," D'Artagnan said, dismissing the priest's guilt over the method in which he had been informed of Philippe's existence.

"No, I did not. And you are right; the resemblance between them is quite astonishing," he agreed. "It is that great resemblance that makes our plan so viable."

"And yet, as I look at him, I can scarcely believe that he is truly my son. I know that he is, for he is Louis' twin, but the things I am feeling are very complicated and very confusing to me. He is my son, but I do not know him, Aramis. And admitting that . . . " He stopped, unable to complete the sentence.

"Makes you feel like a bad father? Like you are betraying him?"

"Yes. I had time to prepare for Louis. Anne told me when she discovered that she was pregnant, so there was time to adjust to the idea of becoming a father. But with Philippe, his presence was dropped into my lap with no warning whatsoever. I do not wish to sound uncaring, but I feel like my own son is a complete stranger."

The priest's smile was kind. "He _is_ a stranger to you, D'Artagnan. There is no need to feel guilty about that. He looks like Louis, but he is an entirely different individual with different thoughts and feelings; a different and unique soul. A different personality entirely, as I am certain you have already noticed. Did you think that you would instantly know everything there is to know about him? That you would instantly feel like a father to him?"

"No, I suppose not." He paused to lift his shoulders in a shrug. "Yes, maybe I did. It is all so confusing. This is the last thing I expected to find when I got here. And I do have feelings for him; fatherly feelings of great affection. But I do not know anything about him except what you have told me and what he told me this afternoon at the river. All day, my thoughts have been in turmoil. One moment, I am feeling angry with Anne for withholding his existence from me, and then only a short time later I find myself wishing she was here to experience this with me, as a family. The family we will never be."

"This has been difficult for the queen as well," Aramis reminded him. "When the twins were born and she was told that the younger of the two had died, she probably wanted to spare you the grief of losing a child. You were already suffering enough with the fact that your child could never truly be yours; that he would be raised as the son of the king. The death of the other son would have been an unnecessary burden for you."

"I know that, Aramis, but when she found out the truth, she should have told me. I had the right to know that I had another son, a son who had been cruelly cast aside by the old king."

"There was no easy way to deal with this situation, D'Artagnan. By the time she found out that she had been deceived, it was many years later and she was already firmly caught up in that tangled web of deceit through no fault of her own. It is I and the former king who are deserving of your anger; not her."

D'Artagnan continued to look at him, refusing to admit that there was any justification in withholding the truth from him. "I could have helped him."

"Let me ask you a question," Aramis continued after a long pause. "What would you have done if she had told you the truth when she learned it?" He raised a hand quickly to block the impulsive answer that D'Artagnan almost made. "For many years, only two people knew the exact location where the child was being raised; the old king and myself. The queen never knew, and still does not know, that it was I who took her child away, and even after the king revealed the truth, he never told her where he had been raised. She never knew where he was imprisoned, and when he revealed that fact to young Louis, he withheld it from the mother. Young Louis did not tell his own mother where his brother was being kept; do you believe he would have told you? Would you have risked your life and the queen's by bringing this into the open? What would you have done? What _could_ you have done?"

Angry frustration surfaced briefly. "I don't know!" he replied, hotly. "I don't . . . " The anger faded as quickly as it came, as the voice of reason returned. "He was my son," he said, helplessly. "It was my son that you did this to, Aramis."

The agony in his voice was so great that Aramis bowed his head, visibly ashamed. "I know. And I will bear that guilt for the rest of my life."

D'Artagnan covered his face with his hands, not to weep but to bring his frustration under control. His exhale was loud in the silence of the quiet room. "I feel so helpless," he said, withdrawing his hands. "I wish I could have spared him so much pain, but I could not because I never knew he even existed."

"D'Artagnan," Aramis said, softly. "What I did, I did out of loyalty to my king. You know something of that kind of loyalty. I am not suggesting that I do not deserve your anger or even your contempt; I just want you to understand that it was not something I wanted to do."

"I know you didn't. I just feel like I have been deliberately denied the chance to get to know my own son, to give him a better life than what he has known."

"I don't pretend to understand what it is like to be a father, and to have these feelings that you are now experiencing, but I do know that it is good that you two have these next few weeks that you can get to know each other. He is a good boy," he added with emphasis. "Where Louis has let you down, Philippe will make you proud. I guarantee it. He is everything that we ever hoped to find in a king. But at the moment, he is very much like a child. I'm sure you have noticed that."

D'Artagnan nodded. "Yes. His inexperience with worldly matters and his lack of confidence is very obvious."

"That is because he has been isolated for so long. He has had almost no socialization with others."

"He told me some of his upbringing this afternoon at the river, about the priest and the woman who raised him. Were they aware of his identity?"

"It was necessary to inform Father Laroque what he was being asked to involve himself in. When he was told that the order had come directly from the king himself, he understood the sensitivity of the situation, and agreed to find a proper home for the child with the required discretion. He found a wetnurse for him until he was weaned, and then located Yvette to raise him. She was a childless widow who had become a hermit since the death of her husband. She never ventured away from her cottage, and no one went out to see her, so she was considered the perfect surrogate mother for him."

D'Artagnan fell silent for several moments, then said, quietly, "He said that she was good to him."

"When I took him away from her, she ran after the coach, begging me to leave him." He exhaled a long breath of regret. "I hated doing that to her. She had apparently grown fond of him."

"I must see her, and tell her that he is well."

"D'Artagnan, I think that might be ill advised," Aramis warned. "You risk exposing yourself as an accomplice to those who helped to free him."

"I will tell her nothing of his identity, but she should know that the boy she cared for is safe, if for no other reason than to ease her mind. To keep it from her is cruel."

"I can see where Philippe gets his kindness of heart."

"It is not only for the sake of kindness that I do this, Aramis. She raised my son. I owe her a debt which I can never repay."

After a long moment of deliberation, Aramis nodded his agreement. "Very well, but it will be me who makes the journey, not you. If Philippe accepts the throne, he will need your guidance far more than he will need mine. And I must make amends to her for taking him away from her."

"All right, but if there is anything she needs, I want to know about it."

"I will see to it." He paused to observe the Musketeer. "I saw his face as he bid us goodnight, the way his eyes lingered on you. He is desperate to be loved by you."

D'Artagnan started to speak, but the words he wanted to say were not for the ears of the priest, but for Philippe. Instead, he rose from the chair. "I appreciate your candor, Aramis, and also your help in settling this matter with Yvette."

"Goodnight, my friend," Aramis replied.

D'Artagnan nodded without speaking, then slowly climbed the stairs and walked down the narrow corridor toward his room. He paused briefly in the middle of the hallway, gazing at each closed door that lined the walls, wondering which one belonged to Philippe.

After a few moments, he proceeded to his room and closed the door. The boy was probably in bed asleep by now. They would have plenty of time to say the things that needed to be said, once the Musketeer became comfortable with actually speaking the words.


	9. Chapter Nine

NINE

When D'Artagnan awakened the next morning, he retrieved the satchel from the floor beneath his cloak and withdrew from it a pair of clean breeches and a clean shirt. First, he put on the breeches, then poured some water from the pitcher into the wash basin on the wash table, and with his razor he carefully scraped the two day old stubble from his cheeks and chin, something he had neglected to do the day before. He left in place the well-trimmed mustache and the small triangular patch of hair beneath his lower lip that had become signature features of his countenance. Then, he rinsed off his face and dried it on the towel, and examined his reflection in the small mirror and decided that he was presentable. Last, he put on the clean shirt and his boots, and went downstairs.

Angelina was already in the kitchen getting breakfast started with another woman he had never seen before, presumably one of her sisters. He smiled pleasantly when he saw them. "Good morning, ladies."

"Good morning, Captain," Angelina replied, turning from the preparation table to smile at him.

"If anyone asks, I will be in the stable," he said as he proceeded through the kitchen toward the door.

"Yes, _Monsieur_," she responded.

As he stepped out the door into the dusky dawn just before sunrise, he nearly collided with a third woman who was struggling with a full bucket of water drawn from the well. She jumped back with a startled gasp, causing a small arc of water to slosh forward over the rim toward D'Artagnan, who quickly stepped backward to avoid being splashed. The arc splattered onto the hard ground, where it was quickly absorbed by the dry soil. The water in the bucket then sloshed backward onto the maid, soaking her apron and skirt.

The water was cold, and the woman uttered a small cry as it soaked through to the skin. D'Artagnan could not contain his amused smile at their near-collision. "Are you all right?" he asked.

"Forgive me, _Monsieur_!" the woman gasped, horrified. "I did not mean to – Please, it is my fault! I should have been --"

"It was an accident," he assured her. "I am dry, but it appears you have gotten wet," he added, observing the wetness that darkened the front of her apron and skirt.

"It will dry," she said, hastily. She glanced into his face, then quickly averted her eyes in a subservient manner. "Thank you for understanding, _Monsieur_."

He grasped the handle. "Here, let me take that for you," he offered.

"I can manage, _Monsieur_," she insisted.

"I will carry it," he said, his voice kind but firm.

She released the bucket to him, and he carried it inside and placed it on the countertop. Her body dipped in a quick curtsey. "Thank you, _Monsieur_. You are very kind."

"My pleasure," he responded with a pleasant smile as he returned to the door.

"Who is he?" he heard one of the women ask as he stepped outside again.

"That is D'Artagnan, captain of the king's Musketeer," Angelina replied. "Remember I told you he arrived from Paris two days ago. You did not get to see him because you did not come in to work yesterday."

She went to the window to watch as he strode toward the stable. "So, that is the famous D'Artagnan. Is he married?"

"I don't think so, but since when did that matter to you?"

The third sister joined the second at the window. "If I had known that there was yet another handsome man in the house, I would have come in yesterday! I nearly splashed water on him, yet he did not get angry, like most men of rank. And did you see how blue his eyes are?"

D'Artagnan moved out of hearing range and resisted the urge to look behind him. To do that would encourage the belief that he was interested in them, so he ignored them, even though he could feel the women's eyes on his back. An amused smile turned up the corners of his lips, remembering Aramis's comments regarding the three sisters and Porthos. _All at once!_

The horses in the stable whinnied a chorus of greetings to him as he stepped through the wide double doors, eager for their morning feed. They hung their heads over the doors of their roomy box stalls, ears pricked tautly forward, and pawed impatiently at the ground. Some were large, muscular horses of draft blood, suitable for the heavy hauling and long hours required for farm work. Others were coach horses, lighter of build and adequately coordinated in color and size to work as matched teams of two or four.

It was cool inside the stone stable, and as he walked between the rows of stalls, he inhaled the musky odor of horses, straw, grain, and hay that every horseman found pleasant. He paused at some of the stalls to observe particular horses that caught his eye, interested in their quality and confirmation. As captain of the Musketeers, he rarely had time to simply stroll through a stable filled with horses. All he had to do was summon his mount from one of his subordinates, and it was promptly brought to him.

He found the black gelding near the end of the first aisle, and it nickered softly through its nostrils when it saw him approaching.

"How are we feeling today?" he asked as he patted the gracefully arched neck.

Unlatching the stall door, he stepped inside and pulled it closed behind him. The horse stepped back to make room for him, and nuzzled at his sleeve. Kneeling beside it, he ran his hands down the troublesome foreleg again, and was extremely pleased with the result.

"Well, old fellow, I think we are both improving," he said, softly. Reaching up, he patted the muscled shoulder.

"How is he?" asked a voice outside the stall.

D'Artagnan leaned back to see around the horse's head, and found Philippe standing there, nibbling on a slice of bread and butter. Curiously, the horse stretched its muzzle toward the bread. "Very well, actually," he replied. "The swelling has been reduced significantly. I think he may be suitable for you to ride soon, possibly within a few days."

"I look forward to it," the boy said, eagerly.

"You are up early," D'Artagnan said as he rose to his feet. "The sun is not even up yet."

"I came downstairs right after you, and Angelina told me that you were out here in the stable, so I knew I would find you checking up on the horse," Philippe explained. After a brief pause, he asked, "May I take him down to the river again?"

"Another soaking in the river would be beneficial, I think," he replied. "However, Athos will be wanting you to work with the sword. I do not think I can delay your training for another day."

"Then I will do so now, before Athos gets up."

"What about breakfast? The women have already started cooking."

He held up the thick slice of bread. "Angelina cut me a slice of bread. This will be my breakfast."

D'Artagnan shook his head, mildly amused. "You are certainly easy to please. Louis demands the best of everything at a time that suits him alone."

Philippe felt a twinge of jealousy at the reference to his brother. "I have never had the fine things that Louis is accustomed to."

D'Artagnan saw the expression that flickered across Philippe's face, and recognized it for what it was. The boy had not even met his brother, and already he felt as though he was competing for his father's attention. He made a mental note to refrain from making such comments.

Reaching over the stall door, he placed an affectionate hand on the boy's shoulder and squeezed it firmly, as if to drive home a point. "Philippe, I am new at this concept of openly being a father, so I hope you do not think that I am judging you against Louis when I say these things, but sometimes I cannot help but marvel at the differences between you. It astonishes me that two young men who look so much alike can be so different. I respect the fact that you are two separate individuals, and I do not expect you to become him, even if you accept the throne. In public, you must act like him at first, but in private, around your mother and me, you may be Philippe."

Philippe nodded. "I understand."

D'Artagnan leaned out the door and removed the halter and rope from the peg, and placed them on the horse. Then he opened the door and passed the rope to Philippe. "Athos will be impatiently waiting for you, but I will tell him that you will work with him later." He shrugged. "Aramis is not going to like losing the time, but I will handle him, too. Being the parent has its privileges."

Philippe smiled. "Thank you, Father. I will see you shortly before lunch."

The boy led the horse out of the stall down the aisle toward the door. It followed him willingly, its hooves clopping on the hard ground.

D'Artagnan followed, and stopped in the stable yard, his hands on his hips, as he watched Philippe lead the horse down the road toward the river. Then he turned back toward the house.

Aramis was waiting just inside the door to the house, watching. "Where is Philippe going?" he asked. "It is important that he return to his training today."

"And he shall," D'Artagnan told him as they entered the kitchen together. "But first he wants to care for his horse."

"And how long will that take?" Aramis asked, growing rather agitated.

"He said he will return shortly before lunch, so I would assume from that that he intends to spend most of the morning with the horse."

"Lunch!" Aramis exclaimed. "We are going to lose the entire morning!"

"Do not worry, my friend. We still have plenty of time. Philippe knows how important his training is, but try to understand. He has never had anything of his own before, certainly nothing as valuable as a horse, and he is excited about it."

Aramis sighed, heavily, feeling overwhelmingly discouraged by the delays. "I suppose I am not a patient man," he admitted. "I must work on that. Very well, then. We will resume the lessons after lunch, but we must work harder than ever. There is so much to be done."

The women continued their work, stealing an occasional glance at the two men as they talked, both of whom ignored them. It seemed only Porthos was interested in them, and even that seemed to have waned since the collapse of the barn of a few nights earlier.

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About an hour after lunch, Athos entered the room and presented Philippe with a sword and a pair of gloves. "It's time."

Philippe nodded and stood up. As he tucked the gloves into the waistband of his breeches, he turned to his father, he asked, "Will you come with us?"

D'Artagnan glanced at Athos to gauge his reaction, but his face remained expressionless as slipped his left arm through the armbands of a round wooden shield with which to protect himself from any wild swipes from the boy's weapon. The older man made no comment one way or another. In fact, he acted as though he had not even heard.

Turning back to his son, D'Artagnan replied, "I had not intended to join you, because I feared it might make you feel self conscious, but if you wish me to be there, then I would like that very much."

"I would like to have you there," Philippe replied.

Aramis had followed Athos into the room, and he held out D'Artagnan's sword. "I thought perhaps it was time to return your weapons. Your musket is in your room, but you might need this in case you wanted to offer Philippe some pointers."

Athos gave the priest a sharp glance, but made no verbal objection. Everyone in the room, however, could see the annoyance written on his disapproving expression, but it was impossible to determine whether it was the return of the Musketeer's weapons which inspired the objection or the possibility that he might give unwanted interference in the lesson.

Without a word, he strode out the door and began walking down the street.

D'Artagnan shook his head slowly in response to his old friend's opposition to him. "I am beginning to wonder if he intends to hold me in contempt for the rest of my life."

"He will get over it," Aramis told him.

D'Artagnan wasn't so sure, but he voiced no more opinions. Draping his baldric over his right shoulder, so that the sword was positioned at his left hip, he followed the former Musketeer outside. He had worn the weapon against his side for so many years that it felt comfortable and familiar as he strode down the road behind Athos. Philippe walked swiftly alongside, but neither spoke.

Selecting a spot on a smooth grassy area outside the village wall, Athos pulled on his gloves and checked the shield to make certain it was properly situated on his arm. Philippe took up his position before him and hefted the sword that had been loaned to him by Aramis. He made several swipes and jabs into the air with it with youthful enthusiasm.

"Put on your gloves," Athos instructed in a toneless voice.

"Oh. Sorry," Philippe said. He withdrew his gloves from the waistband of his breeches, and placed the point of the sword on the ground in front of him, balancing the hilt against his abdomen as he put on his gloves. When they were on, his picked up the sword again.

D'Artagnan moved well to the side, away from the combatants where he could observe, but he had no intention of interfering, knowing that Athos would not welcome his input. Athos was the instructor, one of the finest swordsmen in France, trained as a youth by some of the best fencing masters, and he trusted him to teach the boy what he needed to know.

Athos was waiting silently while Philippe made several more swipes into the air with the sword. The ex-Musketeer was very much aware of D'Artagnan watching from a short distance away, but he deliberately avoided looking at him. "Don't play with your sword," he said, rather sharply. "It is a weapon, not a toy."

Philippe lowered the sword, looking slightly abashed. "I'm sorry. I was just getting accustomed to the weight."

Athos gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "All right, you remember the lesson we had the other day?"

Philippe nodded, and for D'Artagnan's benefit, he said, "We worked on proper footwork and the lunge."

"Today, we're going to practice the parry. It is one of the most important maneuvers, for it will save you from injury if you are attacked. You will pretend to attack me, but as you attack I want you to watch carefully while I show you the technique. We will do this several times, and then you will try it."

Philippe nodded again.

"A formal duel is always begun by crossing swords. It is the way of gentlemen." Athos raised his sword. "En Garde."

Philippe raised his sword and crossed the tip with Athos's sword. A thrill surged through him as the blades touched.

"Attack."

Philippe lunged at the older man, but with no aggression. The blow was easily knocked aside. Too easily, in Athos's opinion.

"You can do better than that," he scolded. "You're holding back."

Philippe glanced at D'Artagnan, as if for instruction, who nodded in agreement. "He's your instructor, Philippe," he said. "Do as he says."

Resentment burned in Athos's eyes that the boy had deferred to the Musketeer for advice, but he ignored him. To Philippe, he said, "En Garde."

They crossed swords again.

"Attack," Athos instructed.

Philippe lunged again, this time with more force, and felt surprised when his more aggressive thrust was quickly and effectively deflected with a lightning quick response from Athos's sword.

Athos was still displeased. "That was a little better, but you're still holding back."

"It is hard to attack a friend, Athos," Philippe said. "I am afraid I will hurt you."

"I have fought men who were far more dangerous than you, Philippe. Trust me: You are not going to hurt me. I cannot teach you what you need to know if you do not cooperate. I need you to thrust like you mean it!"

Again, the boy lunged at him, much harder than before, and finally Athos was forced to exert a little bit of effort to parry the thrust.

"Do you see how I'm doing that?" he asked, apparently satisfied with his student's attempt. "Do you see the motion I use to stop your attack? I want you to use that same movement. I am not going to attack yet; I just want to see you make the motion."

With his sword, Philippe made the same motion he had seen Athos make, swinging his sword as if to repel an attack.

Athos shook his head in disapproval. "No. That was a half-hearted attempt, and your wrist is weak, too weak to effectively repel an attack. Even a novice swordsman would easily break through. Tighten the wrist and do it again."

Philippe set his wrist and made the gesture again.

"Better. All right, I'm going to use my sword now. I won't thrust hard, though, but you must deflect my sword. En Guard."

They crossed swords, and this time it was Athos who lunged forward with his sword. As he saw the point of the sword coming at him, Philippe could not resist the urge to shrink away from the thrust, but at the same time, he used his sword to parry the attack. The blades clanged together, and he successfully managed to deflect Athos's attack, but just barely. As the blades connected with unexpected force, he felt his wrist give. At the same moment, his hand loosened its grip on the hilt, and for a moment, he feared his sword would go flying from his hand.

"That wasn't too bad for a first attempt," Athos said, encouragingly.

"It was awful," Philippe said, discouraged. "I tried to duck. I only remembered at the last second to block the strike."

"Reflex," Athos told him. "Self preservation is a natural instinct to seeing a sword coming directly at you. With practice, you will overcome the urge to dodge the blade. And you need to work on maintaining a firm grip on the hilt. You nearly lost your sword, didn't you?"

Philippe nodded. "Yes. I felt my wrist turn back when my sword struck yours."

"You must tighten that wrist. Try it again."

They crossed blades, and Athos lunged at the boy again. Again, Philippe cringed away from the blade as he used his own sword to strike Athos's sword away.

"A little better," Athos told him. "You must concentrate, Philippe. You are letting your mind wander. If you are ever in combat, you must be attentive to your opponent's actions. You must try to anticipate what he is going to do next, and react accordingly."

Philippe glanced at D'Artagnan again, and it became apparent to both men that the boy was distracted by him. Unreasonable anger surged through Athos, and he swung around to face the Musketeer, annoyed that their fencing maneuvers had positioned them so that D'Artagnan was now behind him.

Pointing his sword at him, he said fiercely, "I do not trust you to stand behind me! Move to the side, where I can see you."

D'Artagnan's anger boiled to the surface. "You speak to me of trust? You are not the one who was clubbed to the ground when your back was turned!"

Athos glared at him, and D'Artagnan glared back.

Athos's eyes dropped to the sword at D'Artagnan's hip, and he gave a belligerent flick of his weapon. "Maybe it is time we settled this matter once and for all," he said, his voice deadly quiet. "You will recall the day we met, we scheduled a duel that was never fought. Perhaps now is the time."

D'Artagnan's hand went to his sword on impulse and withdrew it halfway from the scabbard, but then he glanced at Philippe, who watched with a stunned expression as the two men he cared about most faced one another in anger. Reconsidering, he shoved the sword back into the scabbard and removed his hand from the hilt.

"No. I will not fight you."

"Coward," Athos spat, angrily.

"You know me better than that, Athos. However, my presence here seems to be unwelcome to you and distracting to Philippe, so I will leave you two alone."

Turning, he strode down the knoll toward the river.

Both Athos and Philippe watched him until he was out of sight, then Athos turned back to the boy, apparently satisfied that the distraction had been removed. "All right. We will try it again."

"No," Philippe said, angrily. "I will accept no more lessons from you until you apologize to him."

Athos was startled, and his expression hardened. "The training is important, Philippe. Even if you choose not to become king, you must know how to defend yourself."

Philippe shook his head, severely disillusioned with the former Musketeer. "No. That man you challenged to a fight just now is my father, my blood. However much you may blame him for something he had no control over, I will not stand here before you as if nothing has happened. Settle your differences in a civilized manner, or I will not train with you."

Athos's face darkened with anger. His eyes were harsh, and his voice cold as he said, "Fine. If that is your wish, then so be it." Reaching out, he snatched the sword roughly from the boy's hand, then strode back to the village.

Philippe looked after him, experiencing a sensation of having just lost something that was valuable to him. Athos had been the one to offer comfort and support when he needed it, and now he was walking away from him in anger. For a moment, Philippe considered going after him, but could not bring himself to do so. His loyalties were torn between them, but blood won out over friendship.

After a few moments, he turned toward the river, and followed the path that D'Artagnan had taken.


	10. Chapter Ten

TEN

D'Artagnan's anger continued to sizzle as he strode down the gently sloping ground toward the river. As he neared the waterway, he resentfully kicked at a small rock that was in his path, sending it tumbling down the grassy knoll and over the edge of the bank to land in the water with a plopping sound. A young duck, resting in the shallows, took flight in a flurry of beating wings, quacking in protest at having been disturbed.

Startled by the sudden commotion, the Musketeer stopped to watch as the bird flew across the river to a quieter location. It came to rest again in a shady spot beneath the branches of an oak tree which leaned rather precariously over the bank. Rising up, the duck flapped its wings as if in triumph, then floated lazily on the water's surface and preened its feathers with its bill.

Restlessly, D'Artagnan began to pace back and forth along the edge of the bank, his mind still reeling with what had almost happened. Athos had not only challenged him to a duel, he had challenged him in front of Philippe. And even worse, his temper has risen to a level where he had nearly accepted. Automatically, his hand reached up to the injury he had sustained as a result of Athos's hostility, and felt a fresh surge of anger as his fingers found the sore spot.

In the span of two days he had been assaulted, cursed, and challenged to combat by the man he had considered his closest friend for more than twenty years. He had endured the hostile glares and tolerated the hateful words because of Athos's tremendous grief, but his patience was being stretched beyond its endurance. There was only so much a man could be expected to endure, and he was rapidly approaching his limit.

What had he done to deserve such animosity? How could Athos hold him accountable for what had happened to Raoul? He had loved Raoul as dearly as he would a cherished nephew, and he had done all he could to assure the young man's safety. Or had he?

His pacing stopped, and his eyes studied the beautiful landscape of the farming community as his mind drifted back over the events that had brought him to this point in his life. He had spoken to Louis on behalf of Athos and Raoul, but had he been as clear on the subject as he could have? Louis had promised that Raoul would return soon, but that had not happened. Instead, he had ordered the young soldier to the front lines, where he had faced the cannon that had killed him. Still, there was only so much a Musketeer could do without being considered out of line. Louis respected him more than any of his other advisors; he knew this to be true. None of the others dared to question the king's decisions, as D'Artagnan occasionally did, but to press the issue would likely have risked Louis' ire.

An errant lock of hair fell softly against his cheek, and he reached up to tuck it behind his ear. He knew now, as he had known then but had refused at the time to accept, that Louis had sent Raoul to the front lines to be killed. It had been his willful intention to sacrifice a life for his own lustful pleasure. The very thought that his own son could be so dishonorable shamed him. Were he the one in Athos's place, perhaps he would be reacting with similar rage. The question remained: Could he have done more?

A light breeze caressed his face with its whisper soft touch, cooling his brow and gently stirring the wisps of hair that rested upon his shoulders. Gradually, he began to calm himself, and felt relieved that he had refused to allow himself to be provoked by Athos into a duel in which one or the other would likely have been wounded. He had no doubt that he could hold his own against the older man, especially in Athos's current state of mind, but he never wanted to find out what the result of a duel with his old friend would be.

He sank down on the grass in the shade, adjusting the scabbard so that it rested on the ground behind him. Bending his knees, he rested his elbows on them and clasped his hands together as he gazed across the shimmering water, wishing for happier times, times that could be visited only in his memories. His mind's eye returned him to that day, two decades earlier, when he had first encountered the three Musketeers who had become his closest friends.

The soft rustling of clothing alerted him that someone had joined him on the bank, and it was simple to deduce that Philippe had followed him. Turning his head, he saw that his son had sat down beside him and was observing him with a pensive expression.

"You were very deep in thought," the boy commented.

"I was just thinking about the day I first met Athos," he explained.

"Is it true what he said back there? That the two of you had scheduled a duel?"

"It is true. I had just arrived in Paris and was chasing someone, a man who had wronged me, and in my haste I accidentally blundered into Athos, who had been wounded in a previous duel. I did not see him there, or I certainly would have avoided the collision, but my carelessness caused him a great deal of additional pain. We exchanged a few insults, and he challenged me to meet him in combat."

"So, he had a temper, even then?"

D'Artagnan smiled. "I dare say, we were all young and impetuous in those days. After accepting, I rushed off, still in blind pursuit of Rochefort, and somehow got myself wrapped up like a mummy in Porthos's cloak. I ended up embarrassing him by exposing a secret he was trying to keep from some of his friends involving the gold braid on his baldric." He paused to laugh softly in remembrance of finding his nose pressed against the baldric that Porthos had been trying to conceal with the cloak. "You must ask him about that sometime. I was immediately challenged to yet another duel, one hour after the one with Athos. And as if that was not enough, I accidentally compromised Aramis's mistress, and found myself scheduled for a third duel an hour after the one with Porthos! Three in one day!"

Philippe smiled. "You had a very busy day."

"I did indeed," D'Artagnan agreed.

"What happened? With the duels, I mean."

"I arrived at the meeting place, but before the duel could commence, the Cardinal's guards arrived on the scene to arrest Athos, Porthos, and Aramis for dueling. Presumably, the duel in which Athos had been wounded. Because I was very young, the head of the guards, urged me to withdraw, but my respect for the Musketeers compelled me to defend them. It was one of those unique moments that creep up unexpectedly in a man's life and determine his fate for evermore. To fight the guards was to defy the law, yet I had only moments during which to make my decision. Remember that Athos was wounded, and I was hardly more than a boy. There were some five or six guards against the four of us, yet we easily won the fight. The fact that I won my duel with the older, more experienced guard earned me the respect of my new friends. The duels were forgotten, and that is how I became one of them."

"_The Inseparables_," Philippe said, admiringly. "How old were you?"

"Eighteen."

"Even younger than I am now. When I was a boy, growing up with Yvette, I heard the priest speak to her of the courage and devotion of the Musketeers known as _the Inseparables_. I never imagined that I would ever meet them, or that one of them would turn out to be my father."

Returning to the present, D'Artagnan asked, "Is the lesson over already?"

"No. I quit," Philippe said with conviction and a sense of pride that he had taken a stand on his father's behalf. "I told him I will not accept any more lessons from him until he apologizes to you."

D'Artagnan shook his head disapprovingly, and his voice was mildly scolding as he said, "Do not involve yourself in the dispute between Athos and me, Philippe. It does not concern you."

Philippe felt suddenly deflated, bewildered that his act of allegiance had apparently displeased his father. "But he challenged you to a duel! For no good reason!"

D'Artagnan stretched his legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankles, and reclined on his elbow, facing the boy. "I appreciate your loyalty to me, but Athos is a good man and an excellent swordsman. You will learn well from him. He is very fond of you, and I know you have become fond of him as well. I do not want you to think less of him because of his anger toward me."

Philippe again experienced that sense of loss that he had felt while watching Athos return to the village. "I do care about him, but I care about you, too. I do not want to lose either of you. I worry about what will happen if he tries to provoke you again. You almost accepted his challenge."

A long moment of silence passed between them as D'Artagnan considered his son's words. The unexpected anger that had risen inside him at Athos's challenge had caught him off guard, generating the impulsive response, but reason and logic had ultimately overruled the hasty reaction.

"This is true," he admitted. "I _almost_ accepted, but in the end, I did not. For a moment I allowed my anger to guide my actions, and I will not make that mistake again, so you need not worry about him provoking me again. It is my wish that you go back to him and accept his willingness to teach you."

Philippe was totally mystified by this directive. "I do not understand. He knows that I am your son, yet he challenged you in front of me! How can you send me back to him after the way he treated you?"

"It is between Athos and myself," D'Artagnan told him, firmly.

Philippe tugged absently on a tuft of grass at his side. "He was very angry with me for the things I said. He probably won't accept me back, anyway."

"He will. Go to him and tell him you were wrong, and that you wish to learn swordsmanship under him. You could find no better teacher."

Philippe looked at him a moment longer, understanding that D'Artagnan was setting aside his own personal feelings in order for him to obtain the best education possible. He sat quietly for several moments, watching the famous Musketeer, feeling a sense of awe that this man of honor and courage was his father. Finally, the boy nodded his acceptance, his intense admiration for him shining in his eyes. "Very well. If I can become half the man you are, I feel I will have done well."

Slowly, Philippe rose to his feet again, and began walking up the knoll toward the village.

D'Artagnan watched his son's retreating figure, and for the first time in his life, he felt his chest swell with pride for his son.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Upon reaching the house, Philippe stopped first in the kitchen, but saw only Angelina, who was sweeping the floor with long swipes of the straw broom, and Porthos, who was seated at the table ogling her swaying bosom through eyes that were watery and bloodshot from too much ale. Leaving without acknowledging them, he went to the drawing room, and found that Athos had rejoined Aramis there. Both of the former Musketeers looked up as he stepped into the room, and he knew immediately that they had been discussing him.

"So, you went running to your father?" Athos asked sarcastically as he busied his hands by poking and prodding the logs in the cold hearth with the iron poker.

"Yes," Philippe admitted. "And he sent me back."

Athos's head came up in surprise, and a smile of approval slowly formed on Aramis's lips.

"He said that you are one of the finest swordsmen in France, that I could learn a great deal from you, and that I should not involve myself in your dispute with him." He hesitated, for apologizing was always the hardest part. "I ask your forgiveness for my behavior, and that you give me another chance. It is my wish, and my father's wish, that I learn swordsmanship from you."

Athos gazed at him for a long time, musing over the fact that D'Artagnan had returned his son to him for training, even after everything that had transpired between them. A twinge of shame nudged his heart, regretting the fact that he had attempted to provoke the Musketeer in front of his son.

He set aside the poker, then picked up Aramis's sword again and passed it back to Philippe, then left the room without saying anything.

Philippe glanced at Aramis, who smiled encouragingly, then he followed the retired Musketeer back to the grassy area just outside the gate. He looked around as he took his position in front of Athos again, but his father was no where to be seen.

Athos adjusted the shield on his arm, avoiding the boy's eyes. "Philippe, I owe you an apology as well. I should not have challenged D'Artagnan in front of you. I was angry and I did not consider how it might affect you."

Philippe felt his affection for the older man returning. "I accept. But I do not understand your anger toward him. Even though I have only known him a short while, I can see that he loves you like a brother, and that your hatred is hurting him. I think a dagger to his heart would not hurt him as badly as the sharp words you use on him."

Athos stood silently as the boy spoke, eyes averted, but Philippe knew that he was listening to what he had to say. After a moment, he asked, "Did he tell you this?"

"No. If there was one thing I learned from everything that have happened to me, it is how to observe people. And I observe that he has shown more patience with you than most people would in his position. Perhaps even more than you deserve. You have been vicious and cruel toward him from the moment he arrived, yet he has not responded in kind. He has allowed you to vent your anger upon him without seeking reprisal."

Athos continued to stare at the ground, looking rather shamefaced, but made no reply.

Encouraged, realizing that his words were having the desired effect on the older man, Philippe persisted, "I know the two of you have unresolved issues, issues which he does not want me to become involved with, but I do not believe that he would deliberately cause harm to you or to your son, and I think deep inside you know this as well. I believe that he cared for Raoul, _your_ son, in the same way I hope you care for me, _his_ son. Because I care very deeply for you. Ever since I was freed from the mask, you have been someone for me to lean on and seek comfort from. I do not wish to lose that."

At this, Athos looked up. The anger had faded from his eyes, and the sadness that had been there before had returned. He nodded, slowly, indicating that he did indeed care very deeply for the boy.

"I ask you to think of this, Athos," Philippe continued, hoping to dissuade a repeat of the confrontation between the two men. "When you hurt him, you also hurt me. And even more, you are hurting yourself, because I know you love him, even though you try to deny it."

A long moment of silence passed, but Athos made no attempt to refute Philippe's words. "You are a good diplomat," he said, softly. "You will make a fine king. Now, let us begin."

They crossed swords again, and resumed their lesson, unaware that D'Artagnan was watching, concealed behind a portion of the village wall. Although he had been unable to hear their conversation, it was apparent that they had resolved their disagreement. Satisfied, he walked slowly back up the street and into the house, hoping that someday, he and Athos could resolve their differences as well.

As he passed the drawing room, he glanced inside through the open door and saw Aramis seated there reading a letter. From the priest's expression, it seemed apparent that the letter brought pleasant news. It had been D'Artagnan's intention to go up to his room to be alone for a while, but he discovered that was not what he really wanted. He stepped through the door and rested his arm against the mantle, gazing moodily into the hearth.

Aware that the Musketeer had entered the room, Aramis spoke without looking up, "That was a good thing you did, D'Artagnan, sending Philippe back to Athos to resume his lesson. Your ability to forgive is as valuable a lesson to Philippe as anything we have taught him yet, and it will give him much to think about."

"Regardless of my feelings toward Athos, I do not want the boy involved in any disagreement that he and I might have. They are very fond of each other, and I do not want to come between that."

Aramis looked up from his letter, studying his friend with interest. "You have noticed it too, haven't you?" he asked. "You have noticed that Athos has found a purpose in working with Philippe. For weeks, ever since the news of Raoul arrived, Athos has been like an empty shell of his former self, just waiting for death to claim him. When I initially presented the plan to remove Louis from the throne, it became a single-minded focus for Athos in his thirst for revenge, but now working with your son has given him something more to concentrate on than vengeance. It is almost like the boy has given him a reason to go on living, to do something that will have a positive outcome on someone else's life. He needs that as much as Philippe does."

D'Artagnan nodded. "And I will not take that away from him. I was just thinking; it was Athos who trained Raoul how to fight, preparing him for the Musketeers. Now he trains Philippe."

"Yes," Aramis agreed. "But if you must know, I think Philippe reminds him a little bit of you at that age. I commented on the similarities between you even before we knew that he was your son." Changing the subject abruptly, he held up the letter he was reading. "A courier arrived from Paris just moments ago. We were able to notify every one of my men about the trap. Everyone is safe, thanks to you." He smiled rather maliciously, enjoying the fact that Louis' plan had been successfully foiled. "I would love to see Louis' face when he discovers that his massacre has been prevented." He paused to allow D'Artagnan a chance to respond. When he did not, he continued, "Are you feeling all right? You seem troubled."

D'Artagnan hesitated bringing up the subject, but at the priest's prompting, he said, "Athos challenged me to a duel."

Aramis sighed, heavily. "He neglected to mention that when he came back to the house. He just said that Philippe had decided he did not want him to give him fencing lessons because of the tension between the two of you. Blood is thicker than water, and the boy naturally sided with you, didn't he?"

D'Artagnan nodded. "I think Athos did not like me being there. I am afraid I was a distraction for Philippe, for he kept looking over at me. Athos did not seem to like that. My patience with him is wearing thin, Aramis," he admitted. "He has not spoken one civil word to me since I got here, and that is when he speaks to me at all. Had it not been for Philippe, I fear I might have accepted that challenge. I am growing weary of turning the other cheek."

"I know," Aramis agreed. "His words are harsh, but I beg you to continue to turn the other cheek. I believe he is holding back his sorrow, channeling it into anger. Once he lets go of it, I believe he will suffer a breakdown. And when that happens, he will need his friends to help him through it. And you are the friend he loves the most."

D'Artagnan shrugged away the comment in apparent disbelief. "Perhaps once, but no more. When I look at him, I no longer see the friendship that was once there. All I see is contempt."

"It will pass, D'Artagnan," Aramis assured him. "Just give it time."

D'Artagnan's fist was clenched in apparent frustration, but he nodded his consent. "I suppose time is the one thing I do have," he said. Moving to a chair, he sat down to wait.

Lowering his eyes to the letter, Aramis began to read it once again, very pleased with the contents.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

More than an hour later, Athos and Philippe returned to the house from the fencing lesson.

Philippe, still weakened by years of inactivity during his lengthy incarceration, dropped onto one of the chairs to rest. He was clearly winded from the exertion, and his clothing and hair were damp with perspiration. With his sleeve, he mopped the moisture from his brow, but his face with shining with exuberance, apparently pleased with the result of the lesson.

As he removed the shield from his arm, Athos's eyes briefly met those of D'Artagnan and he gave a barely perceptible nod, silently acknowledging the fact that the Musketeer has set aside their differences for the sake of the boy, but neither man spoke. Finally, the older man pulled his eyes away and went to his bench to sit down to rest.

For several moments, the only sound in the room was Philippe gasping for breath, indicating that Athos had given him a very strenuous tutorial.

Aramis turned away from the desk in his chair. "So, how did the lesson go?" he asked, genuinely interested in the boy's progress and pleased that it had been demanding, for it suggested his willingness to work hard to make up the time he had lost to personal matters.

"It went very well," Athos replied. "We covered several important maneuvers that he will need to know. He learns quickly and responds well to instruction."

"That is hard work!" Philippe exclaimed. "I never realized just how exhausting it could be to engage in swordplay."

Aramis smiled, fondly. "I notice that you seem to be the only one breathing hard. Did you do all the work?"

Philippe glanced admiringly at Athos, who had not altered expression at all. "I don't know how he does it! He was doing everything I was doing, but I am wringing with sweat and completely exhausted, and he looks like he has simply had a walk in the garden! He has not even worked up a sweat!"

"It is the incarceration that is blame," Athos told him. "Your endurance will return in time."

"I sure hope so." He wiped his sleeve across his forehead again, then stood up. Turning to D'Artagnan, he said, "There is a secluded spot on an inlet from the river that I have been using to bathe and swim. I would like to go there now and rinse off some of this sweat."

D'Artagnan was surprised that Philippe had deferred to him as if for permission, but something in the young man's mannerisms suggested that he had little confidence in himself, and that was why he sought approval from others. Or perhaps it was him, his father, whose approval he sought.

He nodded. "All right. Just be careful. I have only just found you; I would not want to lose you."

Philippe smiled, happily. "I will be careful," he promised.

Aramis shuddered in revulsion. "That water is cold! I cannot believe anyone would have the fortitude to strip naked and go in that water."

"It is cold," Philippe agreed as he strode toward the door, "but the water is calm in the inlet, so the sun warms it a bit."

"Don't forget you and I must work on your posture later this afternoon," Aramis called after him.

"I won't forget!" Philippe said over his shoulder.

As his son hurried out the door, D'Artagnan stood up and went to the window to watch as his son hiked down the road toward the river and the secluded inlet he had spoken of.

Aramis smiled, pleased. "You are growing fond of the boy," he commented.

D'Artagnan smiled in acknowledgement, his smile saying more than words ever could. He continued to watch until the young man was out of sight. Feeling eyes upon him, he turned toward Athos, who quickly looked away.

D'Artagnan observed him for a long moment, thinking that Athos wanted to say something, something that his pride made difficult to articulate, but the words remained unspoken.

Excusing himself, D'Artagnan went to the library and browsed through the volumes on the shelves until he found one that interested him. Withdrawing it from the shelf, he settled in a chair near the window, where the light was good, and settled down to read.


	11. Chapter Eleven

ELEVEN

The girl walked slowly along the edge of the river, following the curve toward the quiet inlet that branched off from the larger body of running water. It had been a long day of hard work in the fields and tending to the flock of sheep, and the bank was cool and shady.

Reaching her favorite spot, she removed each of her slippers, and dropped them onto the grass, then knelt down at the edge of the water. The bank was about six inches above the surface of the water, with grassy tufts hanging over the edge, as if reaching for the life-giving moisture. Immediately off the bank, the clear water was knee deep, with a steep slope toward the center of the pond-like inlet. It was the perfect place for a young girl to sit on the edge and dangle her tired feet in the water.

Kneeling on the bank, she reached toward the water and dipped her cupped hands into it to splash it on her face. The water was cool and refreshing, and she reached for it again, then stopped, puzzled. There seemed to be a disturbance in the water, as if something large was moving beneath the surface about eight feet from the bank. Bubbles floated lazily to the surface, and a pale object drifted slowly along the sandy bottom. Curiously, she leaned forward for a better look, expecting to see a large fish.

Without warning, there was a huge splash as the object broke the surface, and a human form emerged from the water in front of her.

The girl screamed in fright, and she took a quick step back as she attempted to rise to her feet, but she tripped on the hem of her dress and sprawled backwards onto the grassy bank.

Philippe stood waist deep in the inlet, water streaming down his lithe body. He had been swimming beneath the surface not far from the bank, and when he felt the need for air, he had abruptly leaped up from the depths. He had not expected to find the girl there, and was every bit as startled as she was. His eyes were large as he pushed the hair out of his face and stared at her.

Recovering from his shock, his first reaction was to step forward to help her to her feet, which is what any gentleman would do, but after taking the first step, he remembered that he was naked. Quickly, he bent his knees so that his body sank to his chin, hoping that the nearly crystal clear water had enough ripples to conceal himself from her.

For several long tense moments, the two young people stared at each other, neither knowing what to do or say during such an awkward and revealing moment.

Finally, Philippe decided that it was up to him to speak first. "Forgive me if I frightened you. I would offer to help you up, but . . ." He glanced down at the water, embarrassed. "Under the circumstances, I do not think it would be appropriate."

Her eyes widened even more than they were already as she understood his meaning. "Oh!" she exclaimed, horrified. Quickly, she turned her face away and shielded her eyes with her hand. "Forgive me, _Monsieur_! I did not know anyone was here!"

"Neither did I," he told her. The humor and awkwardness of the moment was beginning to emerge, and he found himself grinning. He was trapped, unable to emerge from the water without exposing himself to her, but he knew that they could not remain like that forever. "Perhaps you could turn your back long enough for me to get my clothes on," he suggested.

She groaned, mortified at the thought of standing so near a naked man, even with her back turned. "I will go!" she exclaimed, turning her back as she struggled to stand up. In her haste, her long skirt kept getting under her feet, forcing her back down. Finally, she managed to get herself upright, and stooped to retrieve her slippers.

He knew that she was about to bolt, and this was the first time he had spoken to her. He did not want it to end on a note of such discomfort, for she would not likely ever want to face him again. "No, please! Don't go. Just give me a few moments to get dressed."

"This . . . this could be very compromising, Monsieur. If anyone was to see, they might misunderstand," she said, speaking so rapidly that he had trouble keeping up with her words. "I must not be found here with you like this! My father would be very angry!" She started to move away, pushing her way through the brush.

"Please, wait!" he said, stopping her. "If you must go, then I ask that you wait for me a safe distance away. I have no intentions, I assure you. I just – I just want to talk to you."

She stopped. Her back was still to him, but she had turned her ear toward him, listening.

Encouraged, he continued, "I have wanted to talk to you ever since arriving in your village, but there is always other people around. For years, I have been isolated from everyone else, a long way from here. Please, can we talk for a while? I am living in a house with four other men, all of them older than me. I have no one my own age to talk to."

After a hesitation, she nodded. "Very well, _Monsieur_. I will wait for you at the bridge." She started to walk away, then stopped again. "I have wanted to talk to you, too," she admitted.

With that encouraging comment, she pushed her way through the brush and disappeared from his sight.

As soon as she was gone, he rushed for the bank, fearful that she would not wait long for him, but it was difficult to run in the water, and the resistance slowed him. Water splashed loudly as he forced his way to the bank. In his bare feet, he ran to the spot where he had left his clothes, and hurriedly began pulling them on. His body was wet, and the fabric clung to his skin, making it difficult to dress.

Frustrated, he pulled and tugged, nearly falling as he struggled to get his legs into his breeches. When he finally succeeded, he dropped down on the grass to pull on his socks and shoes, then snatched up his shirt and pulled it over his head as he ran after the girl.

As promised, she was waiting for him at the bridge, and a soft blush crept to her cheeks when she saw him coming. She turned away from him, her gaze falling on the slow moving water of the river below the bridge.

His face was somewhat warm as well, and he stopped a short distance from her, wringing the water from his long hair. "I must apologize for what happened back there," he said, breaking the awkward silence. "I have been going there to swim, but I never thought that anyone else went there as well."

"It is my favorite place, _Monsieur_," she said, keeping her eyes averted. "I go there sometimes in the evening after chores to put my feet in the water."

"I usually go in the morning," he said. "That is how we missed each other. I have been taking fencing lessons, and I was hot and sweaty, so I wanted to rinse off . . . " He stopped, realizing that a girl would not be interested in hearing about sweaty men and fencing lessons. "I guess you don't want to hear about that, though."

Her eyes remained averted, refusing to meet his gaze. "I saw you and that other man working with the sword, _Monsieur_," she said.

"You did?" he asked. His heart lifted with the knowledge that she had been watching him, and he grinned, almost giddy with happiness.

She nodded. "Yes. You are very good."

"Not really, but I am learning. Would you do me a favor?"

Her eyes darted briefly to his, then looked away again. "What, _Monsieur_?"

"Call me Philippe. That is my name."

"My name is Bernadette," she responded.

"That is a beautiful name," he said, softly. "And you are very beautiful, too."

"You speak too boldly, _Monsieur_," she said quickly, then corrected herself. "Philippe."

"I am sorry if I appear bold. I merely speak the truth."

She did not respond, but he knew by the soft smile that turned up the corners of her mouth that she was enjoying the compliment.

"I don't want you to feel uncomfortable around me, Bernadette," he continued. "Getting cleaned up after being sweaty is a perfectly natural thing to do. I just like to do it in the river, so I don't have to empty the water. I am unaccustomed to having an audience, though. I must remember to do this in the morning, when no one else is around."

She blushed, furiously, wishing that he would change the subject.

Finally, he moved on to other things. "I have seen you and some other women caring for the lambs."

"My cousins. Our fathers are brothers. They jointly own most of the sheep. They shear them, and we clean the wool and then sell much of it to be made into clothing and coats."

"Is that a lucrative business?" he asked.

"We do all right."

Awkward silence fell over them again. Philippe desperately wanted to make a good impression, but his isolation had left him without much in the way of interesting conversation. His mind struggled to come up with something that they could talk about, but he was unable to think of anything. The primary topic in his life was the fact that he was the twin brother of the king, but Aramis would skin him alive if he revealed that fact to her!

After a time, the girl said, "I must return home, now. It is time for me to help start supper." She turned to leave.

"Bernadette," he said, desperately, hoping that she had not become bored in his presence.

She stopped and turned to face him again.

"Are you going to the river tomorrow evening to put your feet in the water?"

Her cheeks colored slightly again. "I hope to," she answered.

"Would you mind if I sit beside you and put my feet in the water as well?" he asked.

She smiled. "I suppose not."

"I will be there."

She started walking back toward the village, and he rushed to catch up.

"I will walk you back." He fell in step with her, and they walked slowly back toward the village.

xxxxxxxxxx

D'Artagnan was still seated comfortably in a chair near the window reading his book when Aramis strode into the room nearly two hours after Philippe had left for the river.

"Have you seen Philippe lately?" the priest asked.

"Not lately," he replied, turning the page.

Reaching into his pocket, Aramis withdrew his watch, flipped open the cover, and glanced at it. "He has been gone a long time," he said, impatiently. "It is almost supper, and I had hoped to work on his posture a bit more before then."

He looked up in response to the priest's annoyed comment. "He's probably still at the river swimming."

"Swimming?" Aramis echoed, as if shocked that the young man would be doing something so frivolous when there was work to be done. "There are things he needs to be doing. Some clothing and shoes modeled after those of the king have just arrived. I want him to try them on to make certain they fit properly."

"He's young, Aramis," D'Artagnan reminded him.

Aramis stared at him a moment, annoyed by his appalling lack of concern. "I know he's young, but by the time you were his age, you were already a commissioned officer in the Musketeers who had seen battle in the army and fought many duels. You understood responsibility!"

This time, D'Artagnan glanced over the top of his book. "I was not hidden away for my entire life, isolated from the rest of the world, the last six in an iron mask," he said, rather sharply. He regretted the words immediately. "Forgive me; I was not trying to make accusations. I'm just saying that his upbringing was different than mine. He's never been able to do the things that young people do. Under the circumstances, you are expecting too much from him." He glanced at the clock on the mantle. "However, you are right. He has been gone quite some time. I will go see what is keeping him."

"I would appreciate that, D'Artagnan. These delays are going to affect my health. I can't seem to get any cooperation around here! I spend half my day working up a schedule, and then no one is ever around to put it into effect."

D'Artagnan set aside the book and rose from his chair. "There is no need for such dramatics, my friend. Life cannot be lived on a schedule, and everything is going to work out. As a priest, I believe you should improve your faith a bit more!"

Aramis shrugged and nodded his concurrence. "I am not a patient man," he admitted once again. "Yes, I suppose I must work on that."

"Philippe will accomplish the tasks ahead of him," he paused to say. "But he needs some time to himself, as well, to enjoy his freedom."

Aramis nodded, reluctantly. "I guess I cannot very well overrule his father, can I?"

D'Artagnan smiled. "No, you cannot."

Leaving the room, he went outside. Pausing just outside the door, he glanced up and down the street to see if his son was anywhere in sight. When his casual observation failed to turn up any sign of the boy, he began walking toward the edge of town, where he would follow the road to the river in the hopes of finding this secluded inlet that Philippe had told him about.

The two men who had been clearing the remains of the collapsed barn were tossing the final clumps of thatching and broken boards into the wagon, but this time, instead of staring at him with suspicion and mistrust, they raised their hands in a friendly greeting.

"Good afternoon, Captain," they said, respectfully.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," he replied as he passed them, wondering how they knew who he was. He could only assume that either Aramis or the doctor, Bonnierre, had revealed his identity to them and probably others, and that he was on their side.

As he reached the edge of the walled city, he almost immediately spotted his son walking slowly up the grassy slope toward the village, and beside him was the young woman he had seen the morning before.

He smiled with fatherly amusement, observing that Philippe had finally gotten up the courage to speak to the girl. The two were walking side by side, not touching or holding hands, but it was apparent that they were enjoying one another's company. Philippe's hair was still damp, but was beginning to dry, and his smile was easy and content.

Quickly, D'Artagnan stepped back inside the wall to avoid embarrassing the boy, and he walked swiftly back to the house.

Aramis looked up as he entered through the drawing room door. "Well?"

"He's coming up the road now. He has a girl with him."

Aramis and Porthos rushed to the windows to look.

"It is a girl!" Porthos exclaimed, excitedly. "That sly little dog. He will be following in his brother's footsteps sooner than we realized!"

D'Artagnan frowned his disapproval as he leaned close to the window with the others. "I should hope not! Louis changes mistresses like he changes his shirts, but he has more regard for the shirts than he does for the women!" He grasped Porthos by the sleeve. "Come, he should not see us staring out the window at him. It would embarrass him."

Athos entered the room, and a puzzled expression crossed his weary face when he saw the three men huddled at the window looking outside. "What are you looking at?" he asked. "Embarrass whom?"

"Philippe has a lady friend!" Porthos told him over his shoulder, then turned back to the window to gawk.

Curiously, Athos moved to the window for a quick look, watching as the young couple strolled into town together. "What is so strange about that?" he asked. "You are acting like you've never seen a young man walking with a young woman before."

"My sentiments exactly," D'Artagnan said. "Let's move back before he sees us."

Athos, Aramis, and D'Artagnan moved away from the window and seated themselves at various positions around the room. Only Porthos remained, his face pressed against the window. He sighed, wistfully. "I wish I was that young, again."

"But you're not, so get over here and sit down," Aramis commanded.

Reluctantly, Porthos moved away from the window and seated himself.

Philippe parted company with the young woman at the door of her home, and then he proceeded to the house he shared with the men. As he entered the room, they turned to look at him, and he noticed quickly that his father, Aramis, and Porthos were all smiling at him in obvious amusement. Only Athos remained expressionless.

Stopping just inside the door, Philippe quickly looked down to make certain his trousers were properly fastened, for it was the only thing that came to mind which would inspire such amusement from the older men Finding everything intact, he looked up, curiously, his eyes meeting each in turn.

In response to the young man's questioning look, Porthos asked, "So, did you and the young lady go swimming . . . _together_?"

Philippe felt his cheeks grow warm, which encouraged Porthos's laughter.

"You did! I knew it!" he cried, exuberantly, thumping his mug of ale down on the tabletop so forcefully that it sloshed over the rim. "No wonder you were gone so long! I am very impressed!"

"That is not what happened!" Philippe said in the young woman's defense. "She came to the inlet while I was swimming. She did not know I was there, and we sort of startled each other. Nothing inappropriate happened, for I did not wish to compromise her. She retreated to the bridge to wait for me, and we walked back together."

"Are you telling us the truth?" Porthos teased. "We would not think less of you!"

"It is the truth, I swear!" Philippe insisted, his blush deepening. "Nothing else happened!"

Aramis finally stood up. "All right, I think we have embarrassed him enough, Porthos. Philippe, I have some clothing I wish you try on, and there is no time like the present. Come, we must make sure everything fits properly."

Reluctantly, Philippe followed Aramis from the room, and spent the next hour trying on the clothes that the priest had ordered..

xxxxxxxxxxx

Long after most of the residents of the house had retired for the night, D'Artagnan stepped outside the drawing room door and walked casually toward the low stone wall that ran alongside the bare patch of ground and the few tufts of straw that was the only remnants of the barn. When he reached the waist high wall, he stood silently for several minutes, enjoying the peace and tranquility of the country setting. Behind him, in the stone stable, he could hear the horses shifting about in their stalls through the open windows and doors. In the pasture that stretched down the slope toward the river, he heard the occasional lowing of the cattle.

There was no one else around, the residents having retired to their homes and to their beds, so he sat down on the stone wall and lifted his eyes toward the sky, absorbing the rare moments of solitude that he seldom found at the palace.

It was a beautiful night, calm and still, with no clouds to obscure the brilliance of the constellations. A host of stars winked and twinkled in the heavens, and the nearly full moon hovered just above the distant hill, casting a silvery glow over the landscape. Crickets chirped a continuous chorus, and an owl circled overhead, searching for a hare or a mouse on which to dine.

As he gazed at the gently rolling hills and valleys that surrounded the walled city, his mind drifted back to the night when he had, completely by chance, encountered Anne, who was taking a moonlight stroll in the rose garden. She had managed to slip out of the palace without her escort to enjoy the rare moments alone. Already, she was the love of his life, and he had watched her for several minutes, mesmerized by her beauty, before he had made his presence known to her. They had walked together for a long time, cherishing the rare time alone together, enjoying each other's company, and the magnificence of the rose garden at night. It had been completely innocent, two young lovers walking hand in hand where there were no prying eyes to invade their privacy. It had been one of the most memorable nights of his life, until it was overshadowed by the other encounter, the one that had culminated in the physical consummation of their love that had changed the fate of the country.

As her image washed over him like a warm embrace, bringing with it that familiar sense of yearning for what could never be, he wondered what Anne was doing at that moment. Was she in her bed, cradled in the peaceful oblivion of slumber, or was she perhaps gazing up at the same stars, wondering where he was and why he had departed Paris in such a hurry?

She had been aware that he had requested a leave of absence, and would be gone for a few days or perhaps a few weeks, but he had not had a chance to speak to her about the reasons why he was taking his journey. Their last meeting had been brief and hurried, speaking only a few hasty words in the corridor in passing. It had been his intention to seek her out to say a proper goodbye before leaving, but when he had overheard the conversation between Louis and the general regarding the interrogation of the Jesuit and the meeting at the docks, it was imperative that he depart without delay. He had not spoken to anyone except the young Musketeer who had fetched the black gelding for him.

Here, in this quiet village, he was once again surrounded by his friends, united with them toward a common goal. However, the others had no idea how painful this objective was for him, for by placing his second son on the throne, it was necessary to give up the first, the son he had known since his birth, whom he had watched over and protected throughout his young life.

Only now was he allowing himself to consider what would be done with Louis. Aramis had not yet revealed to him the plans he had made for the deposed king once Philippe was on the throne, but the prospects were all the more troubling for D'Artagnan because he knew that Louis would not go quietly. As painful as it was to think about, he suspected what Louis' fate would likely be, and he struggled with the necessity of it. For all of Louis' faults, for all the misery he had placed on others, he loved his son as only a father could.

"Ah, Louis," he murmured, sadly, speaking to the stars and the nighttime. "How have we come to this?"

There was no answer in the stillness of the quiet evening, only the soothing sounds of evening that failed to offer consolation for the father torn between the welfare of two very different sons.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Dressed in his nightshirt, his long thinning hair framing his face on both sides, Athos stood quietly at the window of his bedroom and watched as D'Artagnan sat alone on the stone wall.

Having retired to his bed earlier, he had found himself unable to sleep, plagued by his own troubling thoughts. Over and over, his mind replayed the duel to which he had challenged D'Artagnan. At the time, he had been deadly serious, but now, having had plenty of time to think about it, he was beginning to experience regret for his harsh words and brusque actions. It was a credit to D'Artagnan's character and friendship that he had resisted the challenge, however tempted he might have been. And it had surprised him when Philippe had declined his instruction, only to return minutes later with the revelation that his father had sent him back to resume the lesson, insisting that Athos teach the boy what he needed to know.

And then there was the blow to the head that could easily have killed the Musketeer. Philippe's words repeated inside his head, reminding him that none of them, Philippe included, would have known that D'Artagnan was his father had the blow been fatal. The consequences of his reckless actions would have denied the boy his chance at a family for the first time in his life. And it would have robbed him, Athos, of the best friend he had ever had.

Tormented by these troubling thoughts, he had finally risen from his bed and moved to the window to gaze out into the night to ponder the events of the day and the past weeks, to try to make some sense out of everything that had happened. There, from the second story, concealed by the darkness of the room behind him, he had seen D'Artagnan walk away from the house, and from years of kinship with him, had realized that he was equally troubled.

An aching sense of longing crept into Athos's heart, longing for the times of joy that they had shared as best friends. At any other time in their lives, he would have immediately gone to him to offer comfort and support in the way that a best friend would. But things had changed. It seemed inconceivable that they had become enemies. No, that was not entirely correct. D'Artagnan had never regarded him as an enemy. It was apparent that he was growing tired of the continued hostility, but the only one with bitterness in his heart was Athos. D'Artagnan had quickly reacted to his challenge of a duel, only to return the sword to its sheath as soon as he remembered that Philippe was present, but Athos knew that his reaction had been spontaneous and without malice.

Finally, after nearly a half hour, D'Artagnan returned to the house, and a few minutes later, Athos heard his footsteps coming up the stairs.

On impulse, he went to his door and grasped the knob, determined to make things right between them again. The footsteps were passing his room, proceeding down the corridor. All he had to do was open the door, and D'Artagnan would turn back, and they could talk in the privacy of his room, to clear the air and become friends again.

But he could not force his hand to pull the door open. After a moment, he eased the knob back into position. Already, tears were crowding into the back of his eyes; tears that would flow unchecked if he spoke to his friend. Tears he was not yet ready to shed.

At the end of the corridor, he heard the Musketeer captain open his door, and a moment later it closed again. The moment had slipped away.

Athos stepped back from his door, tamping down the buildup of tears until the burning stopped. Turning, he went to his bed and stretched out on it, but he lay awake, unable to sleep, tormented by the losses he had incurred; the loss of Raoul and of D'Artagnan.


	12. Chapter Twelve

TWELVE

It was mid-morning of the following day when Porthos entered the drawing room and looked around at those present. He had apparently been searching for Philippe, for his expression lit up like a beacon when he saw him. "Ah! There you are!"

Seated on the far side of the table, Philippe looked up from the parchment he was studying. Aramis had provided him with a document written in Louis' handwriting, so that the younger twin might work on duplicating his brother's style of script. A sheet of blank parchment and a quill allowed him to practice the lettering unique to the king. D'Artagnan had expressed interest in the document and how Aramis had obtained it, but it was nothing covert, merely a simple letter of summons requesting the presence of the priest at the palace, and had been issued almost a year prior. The only surprise was that Aramis had retained it after all this time.

Porthos walked past D'Artagnan, stumbling rather forcefully against the back of his chair before recovering. The Musketeer looked up with concern, detecting a distinct whiff of ale as he passed. Looking closer, he noticed that Porthos's face was flushed and his eyes were bloodshot. Apparently, he had chased away last night's hangover with a mug of ale.

He was carrying a musket pistol, a powder horn, and a pouch of musket balls, which he proudly displayed for the young man to see. "Athos has been showing you the sword, but now, it is time you learn to shoot!" he announced in a rather loud and boisterous voice. "Louis likes to hunt, so you must know how to shoot a musket with some accuracy."

After an early morning workout with the sword, the tired young man was less enthusiastic about this lesson, and he cast a fatigued glance at his father, as if imploring him to intervene.

D'Artagnan glanced at Aramis, who had turned around from the desk at his friend's rather animated announcement. "Must it be right now?" the priest asked. "If he is to pass as Louis, he must also learn to write in a manner similar to his brother's."

"He can do that in the evening, when it is too dark to do more important things," Porthos replied.

"Learning to write like the king is very important," Aramis retorted. "A sudden change in handwriting will surely be noticed."

Porthos cast Aramis's concerns away with a wave of his hand. "Later. Right now, he will learn to shoot!"

Philippe looked at Aramis for instruction, and the priest finally nodded his consent. "I suppose it doesn't matter which lesson he is getting, as long as he is working toward the eventual goal," he mused. "Very well, since you are so insistent. Philippe, you can work on the handwriting this evening."

Philippe's sigh was loud in the quiet room, but he had promised to work hard, so he merely nodded his acceptance and stood up. His fatigue was apparent to everyone in the room, with the exception of Porthos, but he knew it should not require a great deal of physical activity to stand and shoot.

"I have spent the morning setting up targets to shoot at outside the wall, so let us be off!" Porthos said, still speaking loudly. He made a beckoning gesture, urging the boy to hurry. "Come, lad! We have much to do," he said, reiterating the words that Aramis used so frequently.

Philippe followed him outside once again, but the other three men noticed the distinct slump to his shoulders as he walked.

Satisfied that Philippe was willingly making up the time he had lost over the past few days, Aramis returned to his paperwork. D'Artagnan, however, gazed at the door through which his son had just passed with a troubled expression on his face. It was not his intention to interfere in any of Philippe's training, but he could not suppress the feelings of parental protectiveness that had surfaced, and Porthos's conduct was disturbing him.

"Has he been drinking?" he asked, speaking to no one in particular.

"He smells like he fell into a vat of ale," Athos agreed, the first civil words he had spoken to the Musketeer since his arrival. In spite of the tension that existed between them, they were both apparently united in this one thought, for they held the other's gaze for a long moment, and it was apparent that both were concerned.

After several moments of deliberation, D'Artagnan stood up and strode toward the door.

Aramis looked up, surprised. "You're not going with them, are you? Did you not say that your presence was a distraction for him during yesterday's lesson with the sword?"

"This is different," he replied, stopping at the door to look back at him. "Athos was sober, Porthos is not. He is drunk and carrying a pistol. Do you really think that I could sit here and leave my son alone with him?"

"Porthos is a better shot drunk than most men are sober," Aramis reminded him, exhibiting no concern for the boy's safety.

"I know that, and ordinarily I would trust him with my life." He paused briefly. "But I do not trust him with Philippe's life; not when he's drunk. His drinking is getting to be a serious problem, Aramis," he added with conviction.

"I know," the priest sighed, regretfully, laying his quill down on the desktop. He leaned back in his chair. "I have tried talking to him, but nothing I say seems to have any influence on him."

"Then I must do it," the Musketeer said, firmly.

"Gently, D'Artagnan," Aramis insisted. "Porthos's state of mind is very fragile right now. The wrong words could push him over the edge. He used a rope the first time; he may use the pistol next time, and if that happens ---"

"I will not be cruel to him," D'Artagnan promised, "but I will not allow him or anyone else to harm my son." He stopped abruptly, carefully considering the words he had just spoken. They were hauntingly similar to the words Athos had spoken shortly before Raoul had been killed. His gaze rested briefly on Athos, observing that his old friend had recognized the similarity. He tipped his head in a slight nod of acknowledgement, an understanding between fathers, then strode out the door.

Aramis was shaking his head with apparent disapproval. "I really do not understand all this fuss," he said to Athos. "Porthos is an outstanding marksman and a good friend. He would never do anything to harm Philippe."

"Not intentionally," Athos replied. "You are much too careless with the lives of others. D'Artagnan is right. In Porthos's state of mind, he is a danger to himself and everyone around him. He should be watched."

"Watching him will only make him think we do not trust him. That could be very upsetting to him."

"Look, I care for Porthos as much as you do, Aramis, but alcohol and weapons are a dangerous mix. How do you think Porthos would feel if he accidentally caused harm to Philippe? He's already been suicidal over less important things. I don't think he would ever recover from something like that."

"Well, even though I disagree on this point, it is nice to see that you and D'Artagnan agree on something for a change. The tension between the two of you is getting on my nerves."

Athos stared at the priest for several moments as the irrational anger began to rise in him again. "Is it always about _you_?" he raged. "The world doesn't revolve around you, Aramis." Still glaring over his shoulder, he strode from the room and stomped up the stairs. A moment later, his bedroom door slammed.

Left alone in the drawing room again, Aramis stroked his forehead with his fingertips and sighed, heavily. "I never said it did," he said to the silent room.

Shaking his head, he picked up his quill and returned to his paperwork, the incident already forgotten in the face of more pressing matters.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

D'Artagnan had no idea what he was going to say as he walked down the road toward the high wall where Porthos had set up a series of targets at which to shoot, but he was terrified of the idea that Philippe might somehow be hurt during an accidental discharge. Muskets could be unpredictable, especially if loaded by a novice, and Porthos's judgment was clearly inhibited by alcohol.

As he approached the two of them, standing well back from the wall, he observed the targets that the former Musketeer had set up. Three in all, they were scarecrows borrowed from the fields. He could only wonder if they were being used with permission. Constructed of old discarded clothing stuffed with hay or grass, they made life-size, if not lifelike, figures at which to shoot. They were propped up against the wall, so that missed shots would be contained by the solid barrier, rather than risk a stray shot hitting a bystander.

Porthos was attempting to demonstrate the correct method of loading the pistol, but it was immediately clear that he was fumbling with unsteady hands. Philippe watched attentively, understanding that this was one of the more dangerous lessons he would have.

He looked up when he saw D'Artagnan approaching, and the Musketeer thought he saw a look of relief on the boy's face at his presence.

The round lead ball that Porthos was attempting to place inside the barrel of the pistol slipped from his fingers and dropped into the grass at his feet. He took a step back and bent over at the waist, his eyes scanning the ground for the lost lead. As a result of his inebriation, he was unable to maintain his balance in that position, and he felt himself tipping forward. He took a quick step forward to catch himself, and Philippe's hand shot out to grasp his arm in an effort to steady him. Porthos straightened himself upright again and shook his head to clear the buzzing in his ears.

Philippe cast another helpless glance at D'Artagnan, then knelt down and retrieved the ball that was nestled in the grass. He stood up again and extended it toward Porthos.

Porthos took the ball between his thumb and forefinger, and looked at it through glassy eyes, an uneasy expression on his face. "Try not to drop it," he advised, gloomily. "If this had been a life or death situation, I would be dead right now, or my comrades would be if I had been defending them." The knowledge of this fact seemed to unsettle him, and that palpable veil of depression settled over him again. "I think perhaps I am not the one who should be teaching you this. I fear I will only get you killed."

D'Artagnan glanced away, briefly, feeling a great deal of sympathy for his old friend, then he stepped forward to intervene. "How is the lesson going?" he asked, cheerfully.

Porthos looked up, despondently. "Not very well, D'Artagnan," he admitted in a distracted manner. "I am afraid I am no longer useful to anyone." He shoved the pistol and its accoutrements into the Musketeer's startled hands so roughly that D'Artagnan was forced to take a step backward to retain his balance. "Perhaps it would be better for all if you took over."

"Porthos, I –"

"I will just go back to the house and stay out of the way." Porthos pushed his way past him and started walking rather unsteadily back toward the village, leaving the other two gazing after him.

D'Artagnan shook his head with regret. "He reeks of ale."

"I smelled it too," Philippe said. "I'm worried about him, Father. He tried to kill himself a few nights ago."

"I know. Aramis told me."

"Do you think he will try it again?"

"I don't know. Aramis doesn't seem to think so, but in spite of his divine calling, Aramis is sometimes a bit too unconcerned about other people's feelings." He glanced down at the pistol in his hands. "At least I am in possession of his musket," he added. "I think we should save this lesson for another time."

Philippe nodded his agreement, and they began walking back toward the village. "I feel badly for him," the young man said with regret. "He wants so much to be useful, to help me learn something, anything, but he fails at everything he tries. How did he ever become a Musketeer?"

"He was not like this when he was young. In the old days, he was one of the best. I mean that. He could shoot a fly off the ear of a sow without so much a nicking the sow. Tell me, has he been drinking the entire time you've been in this village?"

"Pretty much. He has some days where he is less drunk than others, but I don't think I've seem him completely sober since the first day we arrived." He observed the pensive expression on his father's face, and knew immediately that he was mulling something over in his mind. "What are you thinking?"

"I think I know what is causing his problems."

"What?"

"The very thing he is using to escape from his problems. I believe it is time for a serious discussion with Porthos."

Still carrying the musket and its accoutrements, D'Artagnan entered the village with Philippe. As they reached the door to the house, D'Artagnan stopped his son.

"I think it best that I speak with him alone."

"All right." He gestured toward the weapon and its accessories. "I will take those upstairs and put them in his room."

"No. For now, I think it is best to put them in _my_ room," D'Artagnan instructed as he turned the items over to him, and they entered the house. "I would rather keep them in my possession until he is feeling better." Philippe proceeded directly to the staircase, while D'Artagnan sought out his friend.

He found Porthos in the kitchen, seated at the table with a melancholy expression on his face. The retired Musketeer had poured himself a mug of wine, and was leaning over it, gazing into it. He glanced up when D'Artagnan entered, then returned his eyes to his drink.

D'Artagnan clapped his friend on the shoulder. "Angelina and her sisters will be coming in soon to start supper. They may run you out of here for being in the way!"

Porthos shrugged, dejectedly. "Yes, that is certainly possible. Getting in the way is what I do best these days."

"That isn't what I meant," D'Artagnan objected, realizing suddenly that he had said the wrong thing. Aramis had warned him of that. He would have to be more careful how he phrased his comments.

"You have been a good friend, D'Artagnan, but you do not have to try to make me feel better. A man knows when he has become useless. I am long past that point."

"You are not useless, Porthos."

"I could not even load the pistol!" He looked at his hands, spread before him and squinted his eyes at them, as if he had trouble seeing them. "I could not grip the musket ball firmly enough to accomplish even that small task. I could barely feel the lead between my fingers. It is only one task in a long line of failed attempts to do something helpful. And one more day in a long line of useless days in which there is nothing to look forward to except eventual death."

D'Artagnan pulled out a chair and sat down. "What has happened to you, Porthos?" he asked. 'I have never seen you like this."

"What has happened? I am getting old; that is what has happened."

"We are all getting older," D'Artagnan reminded him. "Myself included."

"Yes, but you are still young."

At this, D'Artagnan could not help but smile. "I am not _that_ many years younger than you, Porthos."

"No, but you have considerable more years than I do, and that is enough to consider you young."

"Not one of us knows how many years we have left," D'Artagnan reminded him. "I may die before you."

"If you die before me, then you will probably die respectably in action, as I had always hoped to do. No, I will die a tired old man in bed." He sighed, heavily. "Where I am useless, anyway."

D'Artagnan gazed at him for a long moment, detecting something significant in the older man's choice of words. "I get the distinct feeling that you have changed the subject on me," he said.

Porthos nodded slowly, shamefully. "It is true. I will admit it. I am useless in everything, even in bed. Especially in bed. Recently, it has taken more than one woman to get me excited enough to respond to activity of that sort. Now, not even the beautiful Angelina and her two sisters will motivate me." He sighed again, visibly discouraged. "I have become impotent, D'Artagnan. There, I have disclosed to you my worst nightmare and my greatest shame. Laugh at me if you will. I do not care anymore."

"I am not laughing, Porthos."

He glanced at the Musketeer to confirm that there was no hint of ridicule on his face, and felt relieved by his seriousness. "No, you are not laughing. I thank you for that."

He lifted his mug of wine to take a drink, but D'Artagnan placed his hand on it, stopping him. Porthos looked at him, and for a moment a fire of defiance flamed in his eyes, then it faded into submission, and he allowed the Musketeer to force the mug back down to the table.

"Do not deny me the only thing I have left that gives me pleasure, D'Artagnan," he pleaded.

"Did it ever occur to you that this thing that gives you pleasure might also be the _source_ of your problem?" he asked.

"What do you mean?" Porthos challenged. "It is the only thing that gives me _relief_ from my problem."

"There is no lasting relief from being drunk. I have watched you these past few days, and I see nothing that suggests to me that you are finding any relief from drinking. It seems to me that it is only making you more and more depressed."

"I am already depressed when I start drinking, D'Artagnan."

"How can you tell? You have been drinking almost nonstop since I arrived," the Musketeer retorted. "Just think about it for a moment. You say you drink because you are depressed. Tell me, what does the wine and ale do for you?"

Porthos shrugged. "It relaxes me, and when I am drunk it helps me forget that I am a worthless old failure at everything I try to do. I am too old to play these games, D'Artagnan. If you have something to say, just say it and be done with it."

"You are not that old, and this is not a game. Anything that affects you so adversely could never be considered a game. Wine and ale does relax you, as you said, but it does not appear to me that you have forgotten your troubles."

Porthos shrugged and looked away, refusing to admit that his problems were still foremost in his mind, even when he drank.

"I have seen this happen before," D'Artagnan continued. "If you drink enough wine and ale, it weakens you. It numbs your senses, slows your reaction to things. It can make you feel happy, but it can also make you feel sad and worthless, even suicidal. Those are serious problems. Looking at you now, I can see that you are very depressed." He grasped his friend's wrist to gain his full attention. "Porthos, it is my belief that your impotence is being caused by the drink."

The implication soaked in slowly as he mulled over D'Artagnan's words. "Slows reaction," he mused. "Numbs the senses." He twisted the ends of his mustache between his thumb and forefinger, pondering the significance of that statement with a mind that was still fogged from drink. "You may be right, D'Artagnan. I had not thought of that."

"Allow me to put forth a scenario for you. You drink; you discover that you have some problems, so in an effort to forget those problems, you drink a little more. The problems then get worse, so you drink even more. Is that a pretty accurate description of what has been happening with you?"

Porthos nodded, slowly. "Yes, it is." Hope found its way into his eyes. "Do you think?" he asked. "Do you really think that I might improve?"

"There is only one way to find out. Eliminate the wine and ale for a few weeks and see what happens."

"Weeks?" Porthos bowed his head to look into his mug, studying the liquid that he loved. "That will be difficult," he lamented. "It has been my best friend for a long time, now."

"I know. But I guess you have to decide which is more important to you: the wine or the women and the pleasure that they bring you."

He stared long and hard into the mug, as if weighing the importance of both, then he stood up and tossed the contents of the mug out the door, watching with a feeling of regret as the liquid arched into the air and splattered on the hard ground. "Such a waste," he muttered. "Still, I will give it a try," he announced, slamming the empty mug down on the countertop with forceful determination.

"Give what a try?" asked Aramis as he stepped into the kitchen.

"You are about to see a new Porthos," he replied, feeling more excited about his future than he had in months. "I am giving up drinking for a while."

"That will be the day," Aramis scoffed.

"I think he means it," D'Aragnan said, offering moral support to his old friend.

"Of course I mean it!" Porthos said with motivation. "You will see, Aramis! You will see!"

With that declaration, he strode from the room, his shoulder glancing off the door jamb. He backed up to look at the door jamb, as if surprised that it was there, then successfully stumbled through the door.

Aramis turned to D'Artagnan with an amused expression. "He is so drunk he can barely walk!"

"It is my hope that that will change."

"Well, I hope you are right about that. Obviously, the shooting lesson did not go as planned?"

"No. He was unable to load the weapon, and decided that he is useless in that as well. I talked to him and tried to point out that the drink may be the source of his problems."

"When he sobers, he may not even remember this newly found determination. Do you really think he can give up the drink? It has been a way of life for him ever since his wife died."

"That long?" D'Artagnan asked with surprise. "I had no idea."

"Well, we haven't seen much of you the past few years," Aramis reminded him. "Athos either, for that matter. We seem to have drifted apart, something I never thought could happen."

The two men fell silent, thinking about that.

"When did it start to happen?" D'Artagnan wondered, genuinely puzzled by revelation that the four _Inseparables_ could ever drift apart. "When did we start losing touch with one another?"

"I guess when we started to retire from the Musketeers. You were still in the service, but I became a priest and had my own duties. Athos had Raoul to devote his time and attention to. And Porthos had his wife. Still, we should have met for dinner once a week, or something, just to stay in touch."

"We will plan on that, this time," D'Artagnan said.

"We will do better than that," Aramis reminded him. "With Philippe on the throne, the three of us will be joining you at the palace quite frequently as his advisors. We will see each other often."

"I look forward to it." D'Artagnan paused for a long moment, his thoughts becoming more melancholy as he thought of Louis, the son who was being deposed in favor of the other son. Seeking the answer to the question about his older son's fate, he began, "Aramis, I was wondering –"

Philippe entered the room at that moment. "I put Porthos's things in your room as you asked," he said, then stopped, noticing his father's serious expression. "I'm sorry. Did I come in at a bad time?"

"No," Aramis said. "We were just talking about how we will all be together at the palace when you take the throne."

"_If_ I take the throne," the young man reminded him.

"I don't suppose you have an answer for us yet on that matter," Aramis said.

Philippe glanced at D'Artagnan, who gave a slight nod of encouragement. "Not yet. When I am ready, I will tell you."

Aramis was visibly disappointed. "Very well. In the meantime, it is important that we get back to work. Since the shooting lesson did not go well, I suggest we return to the drawing room and work on your handwriting some more. After lunch, we will work on your posture. You still have a problem with slouching."

Philippe glanced at D'Artagnan and shrugged, then started to follow the priest.

"Philippe," D'Artagnan said, stopping him in the doorway. "I checked on the horse this morning, and the swelling is completely gone now. We will begin the riding lessons tomorrow afternoon."

Philippe's face brightened, and on that happier note he smiled with the anticipation of his riding lessons as he followed Aramis into the drawing room.

Left behind in the kitchen, D'Artagnan's thoughts returned to Louis. Philippe had entered at an inconvenient moment, stopping him from asking the question he had been dreading to ask. Still seated at the table, he stroked his mustache with his thumb as he pondered the possible things that Aramis could have in mind for Louis, but it was easy to deduce that Louis would have to be hidden away from the public, where no one would ever see his face again. That narrowed the possibilities considerably, and left him feeling disheartened, for he knew that Aramis intended that Louis would suffer the same fate he had placed upon his twin brother.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

Thirteen

It was mid afternoon when Athos reached a decision and began searching the residence for the man he wanted to talk to – _needed_ to talk to. He had not seen him since they were seated at the table together during lunch, and as he looked in one room after another, it became apparent that he was not in the house.

As he walked past the library, he glanced inside, but saw only Aramis working with Philippe, so he walked on past. Then he stopped abruptly and backed up to the door again to verify what he had just seen.

Philippe was standing ramrod straight, looking extremely uncomfortable in the gilded clothing and fancy shoes of the king he would be impersonating. Aramis was attempting to balance a book on top of the young man's head.

"What are you doing?" Athos asked from the doorway.

"This will teach him poise and balance," Aramis explained, positioning the book carefully. "Shoulders back. Chin up," he instructed.

Philippe squared his shoulders and lifted his chin, an action which caused the book to slip from his head. As it fell to the floor, the edge of it glanced off the edge of Aramis's foot. The priest jerked his foot back. "Ouch! Philippe!"

"You said to lift my chin!" Philippe complained.

"Not that much and not that quickly!" Aramis retorted. He stooped to retrieve the book. Addressing Athos, who continued to stand in the doorway, he asked, irritably, "Did you want something?"

"I was wondering if you had seen D'Artagnan," he said as Aramis replaced the book on his pupil's head.

At the mention of his father's name, Philippe glanced at him quickly, upsetting the book once again, but this time Aramis caught it before it could completely fall. "I haven't seen him," the priest replied. "Stand still!"

"When we rose from the table, he told me he was going down to the river for a while," Philippe said, his head still turned toward Athos.

Aramis placed his hand on Philippe's head and forced him to look straight ahead. "Face front," he instructed.

Keeping his head in the proper position, Philippe's eyes turned toward the door as he continued, "I think something is bothering him, but he didn't want to talk to me about it. He likes it down by the river," he added. "I think he likes the peace he feels when he is there."

"Well, it is no great wonder, is it?" Aramis asked, returning the book to the top of the young man's head again. "He has known precious little peace in his life, personal or professional. He grieves for a life he can never have. All right, shoulders back and chin up, but _slowly_ this time!"

Philippe did as instructed, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin in a dignified manner, and this time the book stayed poised atop his head.

"Excellent!" Aramis exclaimed. "Now, for the hard part. You must learn to walk without causing the book to fall off."

"That is impossible!" Philippe protested.

"It _is_ possible, and you will do it!"

"I feel ridiculous!"

"There is nothing ridiculous about good posture and a dignified carriage."

Athos watched for a moment, shaking his head. "I agree with Philippe. Aramis, are you trying to help him learn dignity, or strip it from him?"

Philippe started to laugh, which caused the book to slip again.

Aramis caught it, and flashed an annoyed glance in Athos's direction. "Didn't you have something to do?"

With an apologetic glance at Philippe, he quietly slipped away, hoping the young man did not decline the position of king out of shear boredom with the priest's lessons. He proceeded down the corridor and walked into the drawing room, but stopped abruptly.

Porthos was there, his mouth firmly affixed to Angelina's throat. She giggled as his mustache tickled her fair skin.

"Soon, my darling, I will be able to pleasure you as you deserve," Porthos purred against her neck.

"I look forward to it," she replied, her voice husky. "Please, say it will be soon!"

"Soon, my darling; soon!"

Athos backed quietly out the door and pulled it closed, noticing as he did that both were completely unaware of his presence. He proceeded to the kitchen, where he started to pour a mug of wine, but his thoughts kept drifting back to D'Artagnan.

Philippe had given him a great deal to think about the day before during the fencing lesson, as had last night he had watched from the window while the troubled Musketeer sat on the stone fence trying to work out whatever was bothering him. And only moments before, Philippe had reiterated the obvious fact that something was troubling him. Athos understood that, metaphorically, the Musketeer had lived behind a mask as much as his younger son. It was not a physical mask, but it had been there every day of his life since the birth of the twins, as impenetrable as the iron mask that Philippe had worn.

Athos returned the jug of wine to the shelf and walked outside. Following the road out of town, he proceeded toward the river.

He found the Musketeer captain standing beside the secluded inlet that Philippe enjoyed so much, and he paused to observe him, thinking again about the words the young man had spoken to him: _He loves you like a brother, and your hatred is hurting him._ Shame and regret filled his heart at his cruel treatment of his dearest friend. He did not hate him; as much as he had tried, he could _never_ hate him. Nor could he hold him responsible for Raoul's death.

Drawing back his arm, D'Artagnan tossed a pebble at the water. Impressively, it skipped and bounced along the surface toward the center of the pond-like inlet before finally sinking into the depths. There had been no indication that he was aware of Athos's presence until he took another pebble from his other hand and asked without turning around, "So, have you come to challenge me to another duel?"

The sarcasm in his voice stung, but Athos suspected he deserved the retaliatory remark. He had said and done much worse over the past few weeks. "I came in the hope that we might set things right between us once again."

The words were spoken just as D'Artagnan was preparing to throw another pebble, but in his surprise the pebble plopped in the water and sank immediately. He turned to face Athos and waited.

"I have missed the friendship we once shared," Athos continued, averting his eyes to avoid D'Artagnan's gaze.

"As have I," D'Artagnan agreed, "but I am not the one who turned his back on it." Facing the water again, he skipped another rock over the quiet surface. There was tension in the gesture, and the rock did not perform well, sinking after only a couple of bounces.

"My anger was misdirected," Athos admitted. "I wanted to blame someone for the death of my son, and I wrongly focused all that anger on you because of your loyalty to Louis. For that I am sorry. I pray that you can forgive me."

D'Artagnan turned around to face him again, startled by the older man's appearance. Athos looked unusually haggard, and completely shattered.

"Raoul was everything to me, D'Artagnan. Without him . . . " He paused, trying to calm the quaver in his voice. "Without him, I feel so empty; . . . so lost." A barely muffled sob tore from his throat, and he quickly shielded his eyes with his hand, trying to hide his grief. He had thought he was ready to speak his heart without losing control, but the tears that crowded into his eyes were evidence that his pain was as great as it had been the day he had learned of Raoul's death; the day he had declared D'Artagnan a traitor. He turned his back to his friend, his hands covering his face as he struggled to bring himself under control. It was immediately clear that he was losing the battle.

D'Artagnan observed this with surprise, realizing that Athos was experiencing the breakdown that Aramis had predicted would eventually occur. Dropping the rest of the pebbles from his hand, he approached his friend. "Athos . . . "

Athos raised one hand as if to fend him off and sidestepped away from him. "Leave me alone for a while, D'Artagnan," he said, his voice choked with emotion.

"Athos –"

"No, please . . . just leave me alone."

"I cannot do that, my friend," D'Artagnan said, softly. With hesitation, uncertain how Athos would react, he moved his hand toward his old friend and placed it on his shoulder.

Athos tried to pull away, but the hand gripped him tighter, refusing to let go.

"Please, do not shut me out!" D'Artagnan pleaded. "You shut me out at the Musketeer compound when I wanted to help you. We have seen one another through good times and bad. Allow me to see you through this, as I wanted to do from the beginning!"

"Oh, God!" Athos cried into his hands, his voice muffled. "I miss him so much!" All the emotion that had been pent up inside him for weeks burst forth in a flood of tears. His body shook uncontrollably as he released his grief in agonized sobs.

D'Artagnan's throat tightened, and he felt his own tears burning behind his eyes as he witnessed his friend's anguish, helpless to offer him comfort. "Athos, my friend," he said, softly. Moving closer to him, he placed his arm around his shoulder.

Instead of pulling away, Athos clung to him desperately, weeping uncontrollably. 'He was buried on the battlefield," he sobbed. "I don't even have a grave to visit!"

D'Artagnan could do nothing to comfort him, so he simply remained with him, offering support the only way he could.

When at last, Athos's tears subsided and the last of his sobs was choked back, he drew away, wiping his face on his sleeve. Moving to a nearby fallen log, he sank down on it wearily. "I wish you hadn't seen that," he said. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and bowed his head. His eyes were focused on the grass between his boots, as if unwilling to let D'Artagnan see his tear-streaked face.

D'Artagnan stood nearby facing him, but did not join him on the log, giving him the space he would want in the same situation. Instead, he leaned his weight against a tree and observed his friend with compassionate eyes. Now that the tears had been shed, he hoped Athos would begin to heal. "Do not feel embarrassed," he said. "I know how precious a son is to his father."

"I grieve not only for Raoul, but for you as well. You risked your life and your career to help us, yet I still did not trust you. I believed in my heart that you had betrayed me, and in thinking such thoughts I betrayed you instead. I struck you in anger, not once but twice, something I had never done before and never imagined that I was capable of doing. I could have killed you, D'Artagnan. I have called you liar, and even challenged you to a duel. And it shames me to admit it. You should hate me for the things I have done."

"I could never hate you, Athos."

"Then I must ask your forgiveness."

"And I give it, freely. But I fear I must ask yours, as well."

Athos looked up, surprised, his eyes red and swollen from his tears.

"I should have been more persuasive with Louis when I spoke to him about Raoul," D'Artagnan explained. "He assured me that he would keep Raoul at the rear and like a fool, I believed him. I clung to the hope that Louis would eventually become the king we had always hoped to serve. I did not allow myself to see the truth until it was too late. You were right about his lust for Christine all along, and I was too blind to see it." He paused, then corrected himself. "I did not _want_ to see it."

"Raoul loved her so much. I wanted to love her as a daughter, but I felt that she had betrayed my son by becoming Louis' mistress so quickly after Raoul's death. I felt that she had been disloyal to his love and his trust."

"Do not hold it against her, Athos. Her mother and sister are ill, and he agreed to have his personal physician treat them on the condition that she become his mistress. So many lives have been affected by the selfishness of my son. I hope that you can forgive me for not facing it sooner."

"I forgive you, D'Artagnan, but why didn't you tell me about your relation with Louis?" he asked, his voice growing louder with the anger that was rising to the surface. "We were best friends. I hope that we still are! I sincerely hope that our friendship is strong enough to survive what has happened between us, but it would have been easier for me to understand your devotion to Louis if only I had known _why!_ I asked you that very question before, why you continued to follow him! _Why, _D'Artagnan? _Why didn't you tell me?"_

D'Artagnan allowed Athos to vent his anger and frustration without interruption, and when he fell silent again, he gazed at the ground for a long time, trying to determine precisely what it was that had kept him from seeking his friend's counsel at a time when he so desperately needed it. He could feel Athos's eyes boring into him, waiting for an answer.

Finally, he said softly, "It is difficult to express what I was thinking and feeling at that time. You cannot imagine how very badly I wanted to tell you, to seek your advice, but I could not." He paused briefly, shifting his gaze to the surface of the water as his mind drifted back to another day. "I remember that day not so very long ago when Raoul withdrew his application to the Musketeers. You told me that I did not know what it was like to have a son. "

"I remember."

"I almost told you then, but I have borne this secret so long that it has totally consumed me. It had become easier to simply not speak of it. So I bore my guilt and my shame alone."

Athos was shaking his head, slowly, unable to accept the vague explanation. "How have you and I become so disconnected? Damn it, D'Artagnan! You were best man at my wedding, and you were at my side through my grief when she passed away! I was there for you when Constance died. We were always there for one another! The good times and the bad! Why did we drift apart? When did we stop unburdening our hearts to one another? _Why didn't you trust me_?" He slammed his fist against his own chest for emphasis. His eyes burned furiously into D'Artagnan's eyes, demanding an answer.

D'Artagnan was startled by the intensity of those eyes, made more intense by the redness and the lingering tears, and he suddenly felt defeated. He understood that Athos was feeling his own degree of betrayal that his closest comrade had not confided in him. With a heavy sigh, he left his tree and sat down on the log beside his grieving friend. "It had nothing to do with trust. When she told me that she was pregnant, you were the first person I thought of, the person I wanted to confide in. I have bared my soul to you more than once, things I would never share with anyone else, but this time there was more than myself to consider."

"The queen."

"By loving her, I had dishonored my uniform, my king, and my country. How could I possibly find the words to tell you that that the child she was carrying was not the king's . . . but was mine?"

"If you believed that I would have judged you or betrayed your secret, then you do not know me as well as I thought you did!"

There was an accusatory tone to Athos's voice, and D'Artagnan turned his face away, as if ashamed. "I know you would not have betrayed us to the king, but if our conversation had been overheard –" He glanced quickly around the open space that surrounded them, as if just that moment realizing that someone could be listening, but there was no one around. "Athos, she was the wife of the king! I knew I should have fought the love I felt for her. And I should have resisted that night . . . but she was there in the moonlight, so enchantingly beautiful that I was completely mesmerized by her presence. It would have been easier for me to stop breathing than it would have been for me not to love her."

Athos's anger slipped away, replaced by a sense of compassion, for he knew how difficult it was for his friend to speak of the experience. "You did not have to bear it alone, D'Artagnan. You should have come to me."

"I did not want to involve anyone else in my problems. Perhaps I viewed it as penance for my sin to suffer through it alone," he replied. "When we were faced with the reality of what we had done, we were forced to make a terrible decision. Whether to tell the king that I had soiled the royal line, an act which would have resulted in the deaths of Anne, myself, and our unborn child, or allow him to think that the child was his. I could have accepted my own death as punishment for my offense, but I could not bear the thought of her facing the same penalty, or of our child never being born. Perhaps it was the cowardly way, but we decided to remain silent, to let the king raise my child as his."

"That does not sound to me like the cowardly way to me," Athos said. "It sounds like you have suffered a terrible sacrifice by never being able to claim him as your own. I cannot imagine such a thing."

"I envied you those years watching Raoul grow up, watching you love him and him love you, and wishing I could experience it for myself. All those things of fatherhood that I missed, things I wanted so desperately to know. I never got to hold him, or feed him, or hear his first words, or watch him take his first steps. I was denied the opportunity to help mold his character, to help him grow into a decent and honorable man. I could only watch from a distance as he became spoiled and over-indulged. But I always loved him, in spite of his many faults, even though I had never kissed him or embraced him, or even touched him in ways that a father touches his son. Not once. There was another day . . ." His voice trailed, and fell silent.

"What?" Athos pompted.

"Another day that I came close to telling you. It had been a particularly hard day for me. Oh, I can't remember the specifics of my troubles, but I decided to go to see you and confess everything in the hopes of easing my burden. Raoul was about ten years old, and I suppose he was coming home from visiting a friend as I neared your house. It had snowed all day, and you were sweeping it from the stoop. When I saw him creeping up on you, molding a snowball in his hands, I stopped to watch. I knew by your posture that you had seen him coming and knew what he was about to do, yet you pretended to be surprised when he hit you with it. And you both began hurling snowballs at one another. And you let him win."

"I remember that!" Athos said, and the hurt in his eyes seemed to fade ever so slightly as he recalled the pleasant memory from Raoul's childhood. "But I don't remember you visiting that day."

"I didn't. I watched from the alley. And I laughed with you and your son as you played in the snow." He paused, briefly, and averted his eyes before continuing. "And then I wept."

"I am sorry, D'Artagnan. I cannot begin to imagine how it must feel to love a child, but be forced by circumstances to keep it hidden. I do not know how I could have borne it if that had happened to me."

"With Philippe, I feel as though I have been given something of a second chance. I know he is grown, that I have missed all those things of childhood that I also missed with Louis, and I know that upon reaching Paris I must give him up, but here, in this place, I can experience some of the joys of fatherhood. I can touch him, and speak to him openly as a father, I can tease him and even chastise him if he deserves it; things I could never do with Louis, memories that I can later cherish and hold on to when I am old and alone."

"It does not have to be that way," Athos pointed out. "You can still take a wife who is young enough to bear you children. You can still know all those things."

He closed his eyes and bowed his head. "I have tried to move on, Athos; to put her out of my heart, but I cannot do it. I have no interest in any other woman. It would be unfair to take a wife that I could never love."

Athos looked at him for a long moment, finally understanding the degree of affection he felt for the queen. "You love her that much."

He nodded. "I love her that much. I never thought I could love a woman as I love her. When I was young and in love with Constance, I thought she was the one. But the love I felt for her cannot compare with the love I feel for Anne. Constance was a youthful infatuation, but Anne . . . Anne is a lasting love, the love of my life. In spite of our separation these past twenty years, it remains as strong as ever. Perhaps stronger."

"She feels the same way?"

"Yes. She is the only woman I want, but the one woman I can never have." He paused briefly before continuing. "Athos, I must ask a favor. I know that your heart is still filled with grief for Raoul, but I have no one else to come to with this matter. I am in a high risk occupation, and it is possible that one day an assassin will realize that the easiest way to get to the king would be to kill me first."

Athos looked up again, startled. "We must make certain that does not happen!"

"It may never happen, but if it should, I would rest easier knowing that Philippe has you to continue to guide him, to teach him what he needs to know. And to love him as I loved Raoul. I looked upon your son as my nephew. I know you are fond of Philippe. Perhaps you will look upon him as your nephew. I want the two of you to always be close. In a way, I feel that he is almost as much your son as he is mine. He told me how you were a comfort to him when he was first freed from the mask, and when Aramis was applying pressure on him. I will always be grateful to you for that."

Athos's heart lifted ever so slightly. With the bitterness that had been between them, he had feared that D'Artagnan might resent the closeness he felt with Philippe. Now he realized how foolish he had been to even entertain such a notion. Instead, D'Artagnan was welcoming him as a part of his new family.

"He was a comfort to me as well," he said. "Though I am no longer a Musketeer, I will do whatever I can to help protect him, and if anything should happen to you, you have my word that I will always be there for him."

"Thank you, Athos. And in the meantime, I will make inquiries of the general. Perhaps we can have Raoul's remains brought back to Paris."

Athos shook his head. "No, I do not want my son disturbed. But I would like to know where he is, so that when this cursed war is over I might visit the place where he rests."

"Yes, I will see to it. You have my word."

Athos nodded his gratitude, unable to find the proper words to express his appreciation, not only for the promise to locate his son's grave, but that the Musketeer was willing to do it in spite of his past behavior. His eyes sought those of his friend, and he said simply, "Thank you for understanding."

"We will make a pact, here and now," D'Artagnan suggested. "There will be no more secrets between us, and if we have a misunderstanding, we will talk it out immediately. We will not allow it to fester."

"Agreed."

D'Artagnan extended his hand toward Athos, and after a hesitation, Athos bypassed the hand and drew his old friend into a heartfelt embrace.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

"I promise, it will get easier," Aramis said encouragingly when Philippe entered the kitchen. He poured a small amount of wine in cup and passed it to the younger man, who accepted it and sat down at the table in an attempt to relax.

In many ways, balancing that book had been the most difficult lesson yet because of the concentration required to keep the object balanced on his head, and he was both mentally and physically fatigued when he came back down the stairs after changing back into his more comfortable clothes.

"I apologize if I seemed abrupt with you during the lesson," Aramis said, sincerely. "I know that the things I ask of you are difficult, but in the long run they will benefit you greatly. Trust me on that. Regardless of what you decide to do in life, good posture is essential for a gentleman."

"I understand that you are just trying to help," Philippe said, choosing his words carefully for fear that he might say something he did not intend to say. "But right now, I just want to sit here and not think about it."

Aramis could not help but smile at the cautiously tactful response and the nearly dazed expression on his face. It was easy to see that Philippe's nerves had been rubbed raw. Walking with the book poised on his head had been a frustrating experience, but he had known that it would be difficult to convince the young man to submit to another such lesson, so he had kept after him until he could walk across the room without losing the book.

"Drink the wine. It will help, I assure you." He clapped Philippe heartily on the shoulder as he walked past. "You did well, Philippe. You mastered the task, and we can move on to other things."

Philippe nodded, and sipped slowly on the wine. Gradually, his taut nerves began to unwind.

Several minutes of silence passed as Aramis opened the doors to the pantry to take inventory of the vegetables and grains that were stored there, and making a mental note of the items he needed to restock.

"Athos was looking for my father," Philippe said hesitantly, breaking the silence.

Aramis gave an understanding nod. That explained why Philippe was having difficulty concentrating on the lesson after the former Musketeer had left the house. "Ah, and you are worried about his reasons?"

"Yes. Athos challenged him to a duel yesterday. What if –"

"I don't think that is the reason," Aramis interrupted. "I am of the opinion that Athos is starting to feel a little guilty about his behavior toward your father. Didn't you see the way he kept looking at D'Artagnan during lunch?"

Philippe shook his head. "I did not notice."

"Well, they were rather furtive glances. I am not even certain that D'Artagnan noticed, either, but I was facing Athos and saw it quite plainly. Athos and your father have been very close ever since the day they met. This division between them is something I never thought I would see, and it is clearly upsetting them both. They have both lost something that is precious to them, but for Athos that loss in compounded by the loss of his son." He closed the pantry doors, and joined Philippe at the table. "I wish you could have known Raoul. He was not much older than you, and I believe you would have been good friends. As your fathers once were."

"I just care so much for both of them. I do not want either of them to get hurt."

"Nor do I, but you must trust your father. He resisted the challenge before. I assure you that if the situation came up again, he would continue to resist. But Athos did not look to me like he was seeking a fight when he inquired about the whereabouts of D'Artagnan. He was not wearing a sword, so put your mind at ease."

A grateful sigh slipped from Philippe's lungs as an expression of relief passed across his face. "Thank you for telling me that. I did not notice that he was without his sword."

"Well, you were a little occupied at the time."

"So were you, but you noticed it anyway."

"I am a priest. I am supposed to notice things."

Philippe gazed into his empty cup. "What was my father like at my age?"

Aramis smiled fondly as his mind stepped into the past. "He was so brash in those days, so full of himself, like a young stallion coming of age. He came to Paris determined to be a Musketeer, and was ready to take on anyone who stood in his way."

"He told me that you were all brash in those days."

"Oh, he did, did he?" Aramis asked with an amused smile. "Well, I dare say he is probably right about that. We felt we could take on anyone, and win every battle. Those were good times. Sometimes I look back and marvel at the fact that all four of us survived. Together, we won duels against larger forces, and we served in the same unit on the field at La Rochelle. We made quite a team! Sometimes I can understand why Porthos laments for the past. There are times I wish I could go back as well to relive those days."

Feeling more relaxed, Philippe stood up and made his way to the door, but what he saw caught his rapt attention. 'They're talking!" he exclaimed.

Curiously, Aramis joined him at the door.

Athos and D'Artagnan were walking slowly toward the house, side by side, obviously engaged in conversation. As they watched, D'Artagnan placed his hand on Athos's shoulder, who nodded in agreement with something the Musketeer had just said.

"Praise God," Aramis breathed, his fingers stroking the crucifix that hung around his neck. "Perhaps they have worked through this nonsense and settled their differences. Now if we can just get Porthos back to normal, we will be as we once were."

Athos and D'Artagnan entered the house together, and Aramis and Philippe both noticed instantly that Athos appeared emotionally drained. His eyes were still somewhat red from weeping, and he kept them averted, as if to prevent the others from seeing. Aramis noticed, however, and glanced quickly at D'Artagnan, who confirmed the silent question with a slight nod.

Refusing to meet the curious eyes of his friends, Athos said quietly, "I'm going upstairs to rest for a while. Call me at supper."

"Of course," Aramis replied.

As Athos passed through the door, he bumped into Porthos, who was about to enter. Keeping his eyes averted, Athos stepped back to allow his friend to enter.

"Athos, are you all right?" Porthos asked. "You do not look so well."

"I'm all right now, Porthos," he replied as he slipped through the door.

After he had gone, Porthos turned to Aramis and D'Artagnan. "He does not look all right. Is he ill?"

"No. He's fine, Porthos," D'Artagnan replied. "He just needs to be alone for a while."

Aramis inquired, "I saw that you were talking as you approached the house. Am I to assume that everything is all right between the two of you again?"

D'Artagnan nodded. "Everything is settled." He sat down at the table and accepted the glass of wine that Aramis offered, never noticing the wistful expression that drifted across Porthos's face at the sound of the liquid pouring into the glass. "I fear I underestimated the degree of his suffering, though. Raoul was buried on the battlefield, and --"

"I thought he had been returned to Paris for burial," Philippe interrupted.

"No, the distance is too great to transport a dead body," D'Artagnan told him. "A battlefield grave is a place of honor, but it leaves a lonely place in the hearts of the loved ones who are left behind."

"I remember the battlefield graves at La Rochelle," Porthos mused. "Row upon row of brave young soldiers who lost their lives in the service of their country."

"Any one of us could have met such a fate," Aramis added. "I was just mentioning to Philippe a few minutes ago that the four of us served at La Rochelle. Interesting that you should think of it as well."

"I made a promise to Athos that I hope I can keep," D'Artagnan continued. "To locate Raoul's grave, so that he might find it when the war is over."

"There must be someone who knows where the grave is," Aramis said. "Perhaps the general who commanded his troops could tell you."

"I plan to write to him immediately, but the war is still going on and he has other matters to consider. He may not feel compelled to provide me with the information I seek on a timely basis. I fear the grave may not be permanently marked, and in time will be lost. He would respond promptly to the request if it came from the king, but I doubt that Louis will hold the matter in high priority, since Athos attempted to assassinate him."

Philippe kept silent, but he was thinking ahead to the things he might be able to accomplish should he decide to claim his brother's throne. As king, he could order the general to provide the coordinates of Raoul's grave, a gesture that would provide some relief to Athos's grieving heart. But there were still matters that the young man needed to resolve in his own mind before announcing his decision. He could not make it in haste, and he could not make it based on one matter.

Philippe turned his back to the other men and looked outside the door once again, but he was immediately distracted by a young woman who was walking just past the outskirts of town. It was Bernadette, making her nightly walk to the river.

His heart leaped excitedly. "I'm going down to the river for a while. I will try to return before supper, but if not save me something."

Before they could respond, he shot out the door and ran down the street after the girl. Aramis and D'Artagnan exchanged amused glances.

Porthos sighed, wistfully. "Oh, to be young and have that much energy again."

Aramis ignored him. To D'Artagnan, he said, "You know, if Philippe was king he could issue an order to –"

"No," D'Artagnan said, sharply. "I will not appeal to his affection for Athos as an attempt to convince him to be king. We are asking him to assume the highest office in the country. He must not be pressured into it. I mean it, Aramis. I know how much it means to you, but it is Philippe's decision. His alone."

Aramis shrugged, but backed down. "Very well. I see you are going to protect him as tenaciously as you protected Louis."

"It is what a father does. Granted, I haven't much experience at being a father to either of my sons, but sometimes it comes very easily. I just wish I could provide some kind of peace to Athos."

"Time heals all wounds," Aramis reminded him.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

FOURTEEN

The morning of Philippe's first riding lesson dawned bright and sunny, with just a few wispy cirrus clouds drifting lazily across the pale blue sky. Both father and son had been looking forward to the experience, but the younger man had barely slept all night long in his excitement, and he glanced frequently at the older men during breakfast, wondering how they could be so casual. Indeed, no one except him seemed to be in a hurry to get to the paddock.

After breakfast, instead of immediately rising from the table to proceed to the stable, D'Artagnan and Athos remained seated for some time after everyone else left, speaking quietly together while Philippe paced from the door to the window, looking longingly toward the stable where his horse waited. Frequently, he glanced over his shoulder at the two men who seemed to have forgotten the milestone instruction that he had been so eagerly anticipating, and wondered if he should remind them.

Angelina and her sisters returned from the upstairs chambers, where they had been changing the sheets on the beds while their employers had breakfast, and began cleaning up the kitchen, working around the two men who barely noticed them. Philippe stepped back when Aramis entered the kitchen with a bucket of water freshly drawn from the well.

He glanced impatiently at the Musketeer again. Had he forgotten? "Father?" he said, hesitantly.

D'Artagnan and Athos both turned toward him.

He hooked his thumb over his shoulder. "I'm going out to the stable."

"I will be along shortly," the Musketeer replied, indication that he had not forgotten, but that he was in no hurry to join him, either. "While you are there, go into the paddock and remove any obstacles that might be in the way, like broken boards that may have fallen into the enclosure. Look also for horseshoes or nails, anything that should not be there. I want a nice clean surface for your lesson."

He did not add that it was in case the young man fell, but Philippe knew that was what he meant. At least that would give him something to do until D'Artagnan decided that it was time to begin.

"Remember, Philippe; patience is a virtue," Aramis said as he poured himself a glass of water while it was still cold.

D'Artagnan was smiling. "Patience is indeed a virtue, but some of us have more of it than others. Including certain priests."

Aramis looked at his friend with a smile. "Touché, D'Artagnan. Touché."

Philippe did not wait to hear any more of the friendly banter between comrades. Leaving the house, he crossed the wide street and proceeded directly to the stable, where he moved slowly past the open door, looking inside at the horses. Many of them were being removed from their stalls and taken to the fields or hitched to wagons for errands, but he knew that his black gelding was waiting for him in its stall farther down the row. First, however, he must clear the paddock as his father had instructed.

The paddock was located behind the stable, and was a large square enclosure for containing the animals for exercise when they were not released into the pastures. The gate was ajar, left open the previous evening by one of the stable workers, so he pushed it wider and stepped inside.

The ground was soft beneath his shoes, and he noticed that sand had been added to the soil to assist drainage and prevent the dirt from packing down. No doubt, many young boys had learned to ride in this very enclosure, instructed by their own fathers. Philippe knew he was older than the other boys had probably been; most of them had probably learned to ride almost before they could walk, but it did not diminish his enthusiasm. To the contrary, he was determined to learn as quickly as possible.

The paddock, he discovered, was well maintained. No broken boards or horseshoes littered the enclosure, but he did find a bent horseshoe nail that one of the animals had apparently lost, and there were several piles of dung, which he definitely did not want to fall in, so he found a shovel near the stable door, scooped them up, and carried them to the dung pile. When he returned, he found that his father was leaning on a post watching him, his expression unreadable.

Philippe instantly experienced a moment of self-doubt, wondering if he should have summoned one of the stable boys to clean out the dung. Ever since he had arrived at the village, he had been reminded by Aramis that he must behave as the king, and the king would surely never pick up a shovel to do barnyard work.

With a lame shrug, he approached the Musketeer. "I know I probably should have asked one of the stable hands to do that, but it was just faster and easier to do it myself. Besides, they have enough work to do," he added.

"A life of labor is difficult, but it is a life that most people in this world must endure," D'Artagnan said. "If you accept the position of king, it is a life you will leave behind, yet it is good that you willingly experience it for yourself while you are here, so that you may carry that knowledge with you to the palace. Understanding how the less fortunate live will help you to be a better ruler than your brother has been. Come; let us get your horse."

Turning, D'Artagnan walked toward the stable.

Philippe gazed after him for a moment, thinking about what had just happened. Aramis would have jumped on his physical labor like a duck on a beetle, reminding him that his place as king was not to serve but to be served by others, yet his actions seemed to have pleased his father. Warmth surged through his entire body, and he felt a youthful desire to continue to please him.

As he entered the stable, he placed the shovel where he had found it, and followed D'Artagnan to the gelding's stall, and he waited while the older man placed the halter and lead rope on the animal.

"You must wonder why I delayed," he said.

"Yes," Philippe replied.

"Working directly after eating is good for neither man nor beast. Always give yourself and your animals a rest before you work."

Now Philippe understood. "I will do that, Father," he promised.

D'Artagnan opened the stall door and passed the lead rope to his son. "Take the horse into the paddock. I will get the tack, and join you."

Philippe led the horse out of the stable and into the paddock. D'Artagnan joined him a few minutes later carrying the saddle and bridle.

As he watched the Musketeer prepare his mount, Philippe's stomach suddenly felt alive with butterflies. The man who stood before him was reputed to be the greatest horseman in France, and more than anything else in the world at that moment, he wanted to make his father proud. But what if he failed? What if he could not learn even the basics of riding skills?

D'Artagnan was a man who was clearly accustomed to being around horses, and was comfortable with them. His long, slender fingers worked the leather straps quickly and with ease as he inserted them into the buckles and pulled the girth tight. Next, halter was removed, the bit was inserted into the gelding's mouth, and the crown pulled behind its ears. The straps were adjusted for the animal's comfort.

When the horse was fully tacked, he turned toward his son. "All ready."

Philippe moved closer, unwilling to admit that his heart was pounding with nervousness. He rubbed his sweaty palms against his breeches to dry them. "How do I . . . " He paused, his face flushing with embarrassment at his lack of knowledge. Gesturing ambiguously toward the horse, he asked, "How do I get on?"

D'Artagnan did not appear surprised by the query, nor did he mock him for his ignorance. "It is good that you ask," he said, alleviating Philippe's embarrassment. "There is more to mounting a horse than just climbing onto its back. There are different methods that can be used, but you must mount the way Louis does. Fortunately, Louis employs a typical method that will be simple for you to duplicate. Watch while I demonstrate."

Philippe's eyes were riveted upon his father, watching while D'Artagnan passed the reins over the head of the horse and gathered them at the withers.

"Reins in your left hand," the Musketeer instructed. "Make sure they are even and that you have light contact with the horse's mouth. This will prevent him from walking off with you while you're mounting. If he does move, you can easily stop him. Left foot in the stirrup." Using his right hand to position the stirrup iron, he placed his booted foot in the stirrup. "For a beginner such as yourself, you may grasp a handful of mane in your left hand to steady yourself. Louis merely places his hand on the horse's neck, but if you wish you may close your fingers around some of the mane without attracting undo attention." Although it was unnecessary for him to use the mane for balance, he demonstrated the technique to Philippe by grasping a handful of mane in his left hand. "Next, place your right hand on the pommel." He demonstrated by placing his hand on the front of the saddle. "You can steady yourself with your hands, but use the muscle in your thigh to pull yourself up."

With the smooth elegance of an experienced horseman, D'Artagnan mounted the horse, swung his right leg over its back and settled into the saddle. The horse's head immediately came up in alert attention, and its ears turned back toward its rider, waiting for instructions.

Philippe nodded. "That looks simple enough."

"To dismount, you do everything in reverse." His dismount was equally as graceful and effortless as the mount had been, stepping back onto the ground as easily as if he had been stepping down from a stool. Before he turned the reins over to his son, he said, "Remember, Philippe, the horse is a servant, given to us by God to serve us loyally, and like all servants, they will respond more readily if treated with kindness. The horse will strive to please you, and kind words and a gentle touch will yield better results than the whip. I will break the whip over the head of any man I see beating a horse, and, king or no king, that includes you," he added with a smile.

Philippe nodded his understanding, but D'Artagnan needn't have worried. He would never treat his beautiful horse badly. "I would expect no less."

"All right. Let's see you try."

Philippe moved toward the horse. Remembering the instructions that D'Artagnan had given him, he took the reins in his left hand, positioned the stirrup, which suddenly seemed very high off the ground, and he placed his foot in it, noticing how the weak muscles in his legs stretched. Then he placed his right hand on the pommel. With his left hand, he grasped a handful of long black mane. But as he attempted to place his weight onto his left thigh to rise into the saddle, he came face to face with the reality of his long incarceration. The leg would not support his weight in that position, and he sank back to the ground after managing to pull himself only part way up.

He gripped the pommel tighter in his hand in frustration and self-consciousness at his lack of ability, and his face flushed bright red at his failure. Resting his forehead against the saddle in embarrassment, he murmured, "I'm sorry, I just –"

D'Artagnan gasped his arm, firmly, forcing him to look up. "There is no shame here, Philippe. You did everything right, exactly as I told you. You have been in prison for a long time, and muscles become weak when they are not used. You are getting stronger in your other lessons, but you have not had to use the muscles in your legs for something like this. Repetitions will strengthen them. Now, try again."

Philippe nodded, and turned to face the horse again. This time, struggling valiantly, he managed to slowly and awkwardly pull himself into the saddle. It was an accomplishment, considering the weakness of his leg, but it contained none of the polished beauty he had witnessed in his father's mount.

D'Artagnan's heart ached for his son as he watched his struggle, and resisted the urge to give him a boost into the saddle. "Better," he praised. Looking up at the young man on the horse, recognizing the discouraged expression, he said, "It will get easier, son, I promise. In time, your legs will get stronger."

A pleased smile formed on Philippe's lips at D'Artagnan's words, but it was one specific word that meant more to him than the encouragement. "You called me 'son'," he said, softly, his heart swelling with joy.

For a moment, father and son smiled at one another, then D'Artagnan patted the young man affectionately on the thigh. "Now, dismount."

If Philippe thought the dismount was going to be easier, he was sadly mistaken. Again, the culprit was his weak leg, which did not adequately support his weight as he stepped down toward the ground. His right foot landed on the ground much too quickly and clumsily and too far beneath the horse, which threw him off balance. He made several funny little backward hops on his right foot as he attempted to recover his balance and at the same time pull his left foot from the stirrup. When it finally came free, he stumbled backward and sat down very hard and very ungracefully in the soft dirt of the paddock.

Porthos roared with laughter from the other side of the fence. "You must write a song to go with that dance, Philippe!"

Philippe looked up, mortified to find that both Porthos and Athos had come out to watch, and were both leaning against the outside of the fence. It was obvious that both had seen his clumsy dismount. Porthos's face was flushed, and it was clear that he was desperately craving a drink, yet was enjoying this amusing distraction from his misery. Athos' lips turned up slightly, the first hint of a smile that anyone had seen from him since Raoul's death. Aramis was the only one not present, having elected to remain inside the house to do some paperwork. Even the horse turned its head to look at him with pricked ears, as if amused by his graceless tumble to the ground.

Philippe shifted his attention back to D'Artagnan, his face flaming with humiliation and resentment, and for the briefest moment he considered simply running away to escape his shame.

"At least you landed on your backside," his father told him, still smiling. "I landed on my face the first time I fell from a horse! I was just a child, and I got my foot hung up in the straps and flipped upside down." He extended his hand to assist him to his feet.

Porthos' laughter increased, and Philippe finally broke a smile and relaxed, understanding that D'Artagnan was shifting some of the ridicule onto himself. "Well, I guess that means that there is still hope for me to eventually get it right," he replied, reaching up to accept his father's hand.

D'Artagnan pulled his son to his feet. "You're doing well, Philippe. That was just an unfortunate accident. Let's try it again."

Philippe moved willingly toward the gelding once again, brushing the dust from the seat of his breeches with his hands, and repeated the process he had attempted before. It was no easier this time. He grunted, strained, and struggled before he managed to get himself into the saddle, and by the time he was in the saddle he was gasping and panting from the exertion.

D'Artagnan observed Philippe's struggle with sympathetic eyes, understanding that this was a direct result of the six year incarceration. Because of the difficulties he had endured, it was tempting to go easy on him, but he realized it would not benefit him in the long run. Philippe had a lot to learn in a short amount of time. He must work hard to accomplish it, and D'Artagnan knew he must drive him hard when necessary. With a twinge of guilt, he said, "Dismount."

Philippe's expression was one of surprise. Having managed with such great difficulty to get back into the saddle, it had never occurred to him that his father would make him repeat it yet again. With a sigh and only a brief hesitation, he dismounted, but managed to keep his feet under him this time.

"Much better," D'Artagnan said. Philippe barely had time to absorb the satisfaction of having succeeded when the Musketeer said, "Again."

Obediently, the young man struggled into the saddle again, and, to his dismay, as soon as he was on the horse's back, the Musketeer said, "Dismount."

Again, the young man dismounted, wondering if he was going to get to do anything in this lesson besides mount and dismount.

"Once more," D'Artagnan said.

Philippe offered no verbal objection, but he gave his father a resentful glance, which was ignored, and then mounted again. The muscle in his thigh knotted and trembled as he pulled himself into the saddle, and he felt discouraged when he finally made it aboard. "It's getting harder, not easier," he complained. "My leg is shaking."

D'Artagnan nodded, deciding that he had pushed him hard enough. "Very well. You will practice the mount later. But you must practice it," he added with emphasis. "And you must practice often. Louis mounts with ease, and you must do so as well. Pick up your stirrup with your other foot."

Leaning to his right, Philippe grasped the stirrup iron in his hand and positioned it so that he could slip his right foot into it. Then he turned his attention back to his father, who was patiently waiting.

"During public events when he will be observed by others, Louis typically holds both reins in his left hand, and places his right hand on his hip, as it is considered a stately position. However, when hunting or pleasure riding, he usually has one rein in each hand. The latter is the method we will start with. You want to have light contact with the horse's mouth. You're not pulling back on the reins; you just want to be able to feel his mouth. It is through the reins and with your legs that you communicate with your horse, and the horse understands this. I had one horse, a handsome black very much like this one, that would stretch his neck out if the reins were too loose so that he could feel the bit. He understood its purpose."

"I remember him," Porthos said. "That was one smart horse. Everyone in the platoon coveted him."

"What happened to him?" Philippe asked, curiously.

"I retired him to Porthos's estate. He's still there." D'Artagnan took one of the reins from his son and demonstrated the proper way to hold it. "Hold the reins one in each hand like so," he said, threading the rein between his ring finger and his little finger. "You can move your hands forward to give him his head, or pull straight back to stop him, but as soon as he has stopped, release him. Do not continue to pull back after he had done what you asked. To turn right, pull the right rein straight back toward your hip. To go left, pull the left rein back, same as before. Sit up straight."

Philippe straightened his back, surprised to discover that he had been slouching again. That was a habit that he was going to have to break, one that had been acquired through years of loneliness and hopelessness in the prison.

"Always make sure that the reins are even," D'Artagnan continued.

Taking up the reins in each hand as he had been instructed, he waited while his father adjusted them to the proper length.

D'Artagnan next placed his hands on Philippe's leg, the left hand at the knee, the right hand at the ankle. "Relax your leg," he instructed. When Philippe complied, he positioned the young man's leg properly. "Heels should be down, knees slightly bent. That's it." He stepped back to observe his position in the saddle. "Now, squeeze with your legs."

Philippe obeyed, and the gelding responded by moving forward at a walk. Unprepared for the movement, Philippe swayed in the saddle, and might have slid right off the horse's haunches had D'Artagnan not reached up lightning quick to place his hand protectively on the boy's back to steady him. When Philippe had sufficiently recovered his balance, the Musketeer released him, but continued to walk alongside, one hand on the rein to control the horse from the ground while Philippe became accustomed to the feel of the moving animal beneath him.

"Relax your lower body and let it move with the horse," D'Artagnan said, noticing the young man's rigid position. "You will become accustomed to that rocking motion."

The feeling of the living animal beneath him was a new and wondrous sensation. Philippe relaxed, allowing the natural movement of the horse to push his body gently back and forth as it walked, and he discovered that it was pleasant, even relaxing.

They circled the paddock several times, and then D'Artagnan released the rein and stepped back. "You have control," he said. The horse attempted to follow him, sensing his authority, and he said, "Turn him back to the rail."

Philippe pulled the right rein back toward his hip, as D'Artagnan had instructed, and the gelding moved back to the rail.

"That's it. You are doing well, son," D'Artagnan said as he moved into the center of the paddock where he could carefully watch Philippe's handling of the horse.

Philippe could not suppress his pleased smile in response to the praise, and especially his father referring to him as "son" once again. For a while, he watched the horse's head bobbing up and down as it walked. The gelding was slow and uncertain, obviously aware that an inexperienced rider was on its back, but plodded obediently. Its ears flicked frequently back toward its rider, then toward the man on the ground who continued to watch from the center of the paddock, as if uncertain who to take its commands from.

"Just continue to walk around the rail and get accustomed to the movement of the horse," D'Artagnan told him. "Balance is everything."

Porthos laughed again, and D'Artagnan smiled. Only Athos remained straight-faced. Philippe felt his cheeks heat up again with indignation. It seemed that they would not soon let him forget his blunder, but he made no comment.

"Now, pull on the left rein and move toward me. I want you to cut through the center of the paddock, then return to the rail going the other direction."

Philippe complied with his father's instructions, pulling back on the left rein so that the horse moved through the center of the paddock toward D'Artagnan. The Musketeer stepped back, allowing the horse to pass him, and Philippe shortened the right rein, turning the horse toward the rail again as they switched direction. A thrill of accomplishment went through him when the horse obeyed his commands, and he flashed a delighted grin at his father.

D'Artagnan could help but smile at the expression of rapture on his son's face. "Excellent, Philippe," he praised. "I think you and your horse are getting more comfortable with one another."

Philippe continued to ride the horse at a walk, occasionally cutting through the center of the paddock to change direction. The horse always pricked its ears at D'Artagnan as it passed him, but it now accepted its rider's commands without hesitation.

D'Artragnan watched from the center of the enclosure, pleased with his son's progress, and after a while he said, "Now, I want you to move through the paddock in a figure eight pattern," he said, using his finger to draw the figure in the air so that the young man understood.

Responding immediately, Philippe guided the horse into the pattern he had described, understanding that the lesson had progressed to getting him comfortable with using the reins.

After nearly an hour had passed from the start of the lesson, Aramis came out of the house, and joined his friends at the railing to watch as the young man rode slowly around the edge of the paddock. "He's coming along nicely," he said, approvingly, then smiled at D'Artagnan. "He appears to be his father's son."

"In more ways than one!" Porthos chuckled, winking at D'Artagnan.

He allowed the boy to circle the paddock several more times, then said, "I think he's had enough for the first day." He motioned to Philippe, and the young man approached, smiling.

"I'm feeling more comfortable, now," he said.

"That is good," the Musketeer replied. "We'll work some more on this tomorrow, but after lunch I will show you a way to help strengthen your legs. Expect to be sore in the morning," he added with a smile.

Stopping the horse near the gate, Philippe carefully dismounted, making certain that he alighted properly on the ground and did not make a fool of himself again.

"When you have rested up a bit, we must work on your penmanship some more," Aramis said as he started walking back toward the house. Then he stopped abruptly and turned around to face the paddock again. "D'Artagnan!"

Everyone at the paddock turned to face him.

The priest withdrew a coin from his pocket and held it up for them to see. Then, without a word, he tossed it onto the ground several yards away, and turned back to his friend, smiling.

D'Artagnan must have understood the significance of the curious gesture, for he heaved a heavy sigh and gave the priest a somewhat wilting glance. "Aramis, I haven't even attempted that in years."

"Oh, come on, D'Artagnan!" Porthos said, giving him a playful shove through the rails that sent him sprawling against the horse's shoulder. "You can still do it."

"You really want to see me make a fool out of myself, don't you?" he asked, righting himself once again. "I'm more likely to fall off and break my neck!"

Philippe looked curiously from one to the other, then approached Athos. "What are they talking about?" he asked.

"When he was young, D'Artagnan could pick up a coin from the ground at full gallop," he explained. "Not only must you be a skilled horseman, you must also have incredible eyesight to do such a thing. I could never even see the coin on the ground at that speed."

"Perhaps if I get a smaller horse?" D'Artagnan suggested. "A child's pony, perchance, so I won't have so far to fall?"

"_This_ horse!" Aramis told him, laughing.

Accepting the challenge, D'Artagnan took the reins from Philippe, and mounted in one continuously fluid motion. He had stepped into the stirrup and onto the horse's back as easily as if stepping up on a footstool. He did not even need to bend over to place his right foot in the other stirrup; he merely maneuvered the stirrup with the toe of his boot until it was in position. Philippe was suitably impressed, and resolved that he would try that during his next lesson.

The gelding's demeanor immediately changed with the experienced rider on its back. Where it had been slow and tentative with the younger man, it came instantly to attention with D'Artagnan. Its head was carried high, its neck gracefully arched, and it took several quick, prancing steps, trying to anticipate what its rider expected. He wondered if the horse would ever look so magnificent with him on its back instead of the Musketeer.

Taking up the reins, D'Artagnan asked, "I don't suppose I can convince you that I am probably going to fall and hurt myself."

"You're too modest, D'Artagnan," Porthos scolded as he opened the paddock gate.

"I am a fool," he retorted with a slight smile as he guided the gelding through the gate at a walk, a much faster walk, Philippe noticed, than he had used in the paddock during his lesson.

He rode at a walk past the coin, pinpointing its location on the ground, then he nudged the horse's sides with his heels, and the gelding broke into a canter. He circled the yard a couple of times, getting the feel of the horse's stride after being out of the saddle for a few days, while the others watched. When he was ready, he urged his mount into full gallop.

As he neared the coin, he leaned low over the animal's neck. With his right hand, he gripped the reins and the pommel of the saddle as he shifted his weight off the left side of the horse, draping his right leg over the saddle, and reached down with his left hand to snatch the coin from the ground as he galloped past. With the coin in his hand, he shifted his weight back into the saddle, and slowed the horse. He cantered back to his friends, and tossed the coin into Aramis' hand.

Philippe's eyes were shining with passionate admiration for his father's ability, ample reward for D'Artagnan's trick.

"I told you, you could still do it!" Aramis praised.

D'Artagnan drew the horse to a stop at the paddock, and dismounted. He handed the reins to Philippe. "Your confidence exceeds mine," he said to the priest as he began to unfasten the girth on the saddle. "I was uncertain that I still had the skill. A lot of years have passed since I amused my comrades with that trick."

"We were always doing foolish things to amuse ourselves, weren't we?" Porthos asked. He sighed, heavily. "Those were good times."

"That they were, my friend," D'Artagnan said. "But there are good times yet to come."

Lifting the saddle from the horse's back, he slung it over the fence. He then took the reins and led the gelding back into the paddock, and slipped the bridle off. The horse walked away several steps, then lay down on the soft ground and rolled and rolled until the feeling of the saddle had been removed from its back. Then it stood up again and shook itself off. A cloud of dust drifted over the paddock.

The five men walked up to the house together and proceeded to the drawing room, where Aramis presented Philippe with a parchment and a quill. But the young man was too excited to even think about anything else at that moment.

"I've never seen anyone ride a horse like that!" he said enthusiastically as Angelina poured warm freshly made cider into cups for them. "I bet you learned to ride on the finest steeds in the country!"

D'Artagnan leaned back in his chair and smiled patiently. "I learned to ride as a child on my father's old plow horse while he tilled the sod behind me. The straps I got hung up in were the harness for the plow."

Philippe looked startled. "But . . . I thought your father was a Musketeer!"

"He was, for a time. A serious injury forced him to leave the service, so he returned to Gascony, married my mother, and started a family."

Philippe's surprise increased. "Returned to Gascony?"

"That is where I was raised."

"But I heard that people from Gascony are –" he broke off abruptly, embarrassed. Quickly, he averted his eyes, hoping he had not offended his father.

Everyone in the room looked at D'Artagnan, who in turn looked fondly at his son. "You can say the word, Philippe," he said without offense. "We were poor. I am not ashamed of that, for it is our past that shapes our future. Even as a small child, I worked in the fields alongside my father from dawn until dusk just so that we would have enough food on the table to last through the winter. Every night, I collapsed into bed so tired that it seemed I had barely closed my eyes when it was time to get up and repeat the process again. We were totally dependent on our crops and the livestock we raised, and following droughts or insect infestations, we would have to ration our food through the winter months, which meant that by spring we were going to bed hungry. I remember one year, Father had to slaughter the milk cow to sustain us, and Mother cried for days because they could not afford to replace her. They were difficult times, yet in some ways, they were the happiest days of my life. As I got older, times became easier, for I was able to work harder and longer, and our crops were larger. By the time I left home, we were selling portions of our crops for money. It was hard work, but very satisfying to provide your family with the fruit of your labor."

"Did you attend formal schooling?" Porthos asked.

"No. I was educated at the evening fireside by my mother, and I learned dedication and swordsmanship from my father. They shaped my life into who I am today, and I owe them a great debt."

Porthos took a sip of cider, and grimaced, finding the flavor was not to his liking. For a moment, he considered going to the kitchen for the keg of wine, but then caught a gentle smile from Angelina, and felt his resolve strengthen again. He had known it would not be easy when he had decided to give up the drink, and there was a great deal to gain by success. In an attempt to take his mind off his problems, he asked, "Tell me, D'Artagnan, did you really fall on your face in the dirt?"

Aramis looked up in surprise. "What is this? Did I miss something?"

"D'Artagnan was telling us that when he was learning how to ride, he fell from the horse on his face."

D'Artagan was smiling as he took a sip of the warm cider, then returned the cup to the table. "I did. Left a nice imprint of my features in the soft dirt, including my wide-open mouth, for I was yelling as I watched the ground rush up to meet my face!"

Aramis and Porthos laughed heartily, and D'Artagnan continued to smile, unoffended by their laughter. Even Athos was greatly amused, as evidenced by the crinkling at the corner of his eyes and the slight turning up of his lips. Although he could not help laughing with the rest, Philippe felt surprised that his father could actually make fun of himself.

"I would give half of my late wife's holdings to have seen that!" Porthos said, wistfully.

"My father joked that he wanted to find some mortar with which to make a cast of the imprint so that all might see his son's artistic creation! For once, I was glad we were too poor to afford the mortar. I would never have been able to show my face in the village again!"

Porthos roared with laughter and the quill and ink well jumped when he gleefully banged his fist on the tabletop. "The mortar cast would probably have been displayed for posterity in the town square!"

"It would have scared away all the pigeons, that is for certain," D'Artagnan quipped.

Again, the laughter was raucous. This time, even Athos could not suppress his chuckle of amusement, and everyone noticed and felt relief that their old friend was slowly returning to himself, but they did not wish to embarrass him by calling it to attention.

"You never told us about that," Aramis said, wiping his eyes when the laughter died down.

D'Artagnan shrugged. "To tell you the truth, I had forgotten about it until Philippe reminded me of it."

Philippe felt his cheeks heat up once again at the reminder of his own faux pas. Would they never let him forget that?

D'Artagnan saw his son's embarrassment, and said, "It is easy to laugh at others, Philippe, but it is more important that we be able to laugh at ourselves. We all do things at one time or another to humiliate ourselves, but they are not to be taken so seriously. Our stumbles and falls teach us humility, and the laughter of our friends should be enjoyed, even when we are the source of that laughter. One day, you will look back on this incident with fondness and wish that you could relive it, for it all goes by too quickly."

"Well said, D'Artagnan," Aramis agreed.

Philippe thought about that for a long time, and then nodded. "I suppose I am too serious, but I have had very little to laugh about in my life."

Aramis looked away, guiltily, and D'Artagnan's eyes were kind as he observed his son. "There will be no more hard times for you, my son. No matter what decision you make, whether you take command of your country or settle into a more private existence, I will promise you that much."

Philippe's eyes locked with those of his father, and felt the affection that bonded them together.

Aramis broke into the silence that had settled over the room. "Well, I think it's time you turned your attention to that piece of parchment before you and work on your script."

With a smile, Philippe dipped the quill in the ink well and applied it to the parchment.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

Fifteen

Philippe was jarred from a sound sleep by a loud clap of thunder, and, recalling how the loud rumbling tended to reverberate inside the iron mask, his hands immediately went to either side of his head, as if to stifle the sound. But instead of making contact with cold metal, his fingers touched soft skin and hair.

Roused by the unexpected contact with his own face, he opened his eyes and lifted his head off the pillow, remembering that he was safely away from the horrors of the prison, lying in a comfortable bed in the company of the kind men who had rescued him. And his father.

A soft smile crept to his lips as the word entered his mind. For the first time ever, he knew someone who was a blood relative; a father, who was currently residing in the same house with him, who would help train him to take the reins of the country and would be at his side to help him with his transition. And, waiting for him in Paris, was his mother, the queen.

A feeling of excitement crept into his heart, rendering him unable to sleep any longer. He folded his hands behind his head, and gazed up at the ceiling, happier than he had ever felt in his life.

He and his father were growing closer, and with each day that passed, the young man was learning new and interesting things in regard to his own background. He had been unaware that his roots were in Gascony, one of the poorest areas of France, a fact which made D'Artagnan's rise to the top of the Musketeer's ranks that much more admirable. Whenever he looked at him, observing his calm demeanor and patient countenance, he had great difficulty imagining his father as the impetuous youth that Aramis had described.

Best of all, D'Artagnan had referred to him as "son" several times the previous day, and after lunch, he had taken Philippe back out to the paddock fence to show him how to strengthen his leg for mounting his horse.

"The middle rail is a bit lower than the stirrup would be on a saddled horse," he had said, "but it is near enough to be serviceable, so what I want you to do, as often as you can, is place your left foot on that middle rail, as if you were going to mount a horse, and step up on it. You don't need to put your other leg over the rail and sit on it; just step up and then back down." He patted Philippe's thigh. "You want to strengthen this muscle right here, so do this over and over, as often as you are able and as frequently as possible. In a short time, you will see a big difference in your ability to mount your horse."

He had spent much of the afternoon practicing his mount and dismount on the fence rails. _And paying for it this morning_, he thought with a smile as he felt the muscles in his thighs contract as he shifted his weight on the bed. Not only were his legs sore, but his buttocks and his back were also feeling the same discomfort. But in spite of the aches and pains, he looked forward to his next lesson, and eventually, he wanted to take a leisurely ride alongside his father.

Thunder crashed again, and a flash of lightning brightened the room, returning his thoughts to the presence as his body flinched at the startling abruptness of it.

In the room next door, he heard a muffled curse, followed by a banging sound. His smile broadened. That would be Athos, cursing because the thunder had awakened him, and slamming the shutters closed in an attempt to stifle the approaching storm.

Tossing back the covers, Philippe stood up and went to the window, dressed in his nightshirt. Resting his hands on the window sill, he pressed his abdomen against it and gazed out into the night, drinking in the beauty of his freedom.

Lightning flashed on the horizon, illuminating the angry looking gray clouds that rolled across the sky, driven by a strong upper-level wind, and he knew the area beyond the hill was receiving a rain shower. He could smell it on the breeze that caressed his face; the refreshing scent of precipitation. He inhaled deeply. It was a wonderful smell, fresh and clean compared to the unpleasant smells of human waste, unwashed bodies, and moldy straw that he had become familiar with in the prison. Even the thunder was pleasant, now that he did not have to listen to it echoing inside the confines of the iron mask.

The village was silent and sleeping and the windows of the other houses were dark, but as he lowered his gaze to the hard ground below, he saw a faint glow of light coming from a downstairs window directly below him, evidence that someone was up. With the confidence of youth, he leaned farther out to gain a better look. A shadow passed through the light, indicating that someone had walked between the candle and the window.

Without warning, his hand slipped off the outer edge of the window sill and he grunted when his entire weight landed on the sill on his lower abdomen, driving the air from his lungs. Then he sucked in his breath in panic when momentum carried him forward, causing his head to dip and his feet to lift. He clawed frantically at the edges of the window to abort his fall, but he got a much closer look at the exterior stonework than he had ever wanted to see before he managed to pull himself back inside the room.

Stepping back a safe distance from the window, he listened carefully. If anyone had heard the scrambling sounds he had made in his attempt to recover himself, there was no indication of it. Grinning sheepishly, he rubbed his nose where it had collided with the outside wall, grateful that no one had been there to witness what had nearly been a nose-dive out the window, and thankful that his nose was not bleeding as a result of his carelessness.

He was now wide awake, any lingering sensation of sleepiness having been driven from him by his brief scare, so he pulled his nightshirt off over his head and dressed in a pair of breeches and a loose white shirt which he did not bother to tuck in. Opening the door quietly, he stepped into the hallway. Treading carefully in his bare feet to avoid waking anyone, he padded quietly along the dark corridor and down the stairs, turning toward the drawing room, the room in which the light was burning.

Pausing at the open doorway to look into the room, he observed his father seated alone at the rectangular wooden table in the flickering candlelight. Several leather straps were lying on the table in front of him, and as he watched, D'Artagnan positioned an awl over one of them and tapped it lightly with a hammer, so that it punched a hole in the leather. He was mindful of the table, careful not to mar the wood with the point of the awl.

"You may come in, if you wish," D'Artagnan said without looking up.

"I did not want to disturb you."

"You could never disturb me, Philippe," he replied, his voice very kind.

Philippe stepped into the room. "How did you know I was there?"

"I heard you coming."

"No, you couldn't have!" the boy protested. "I am not wearing shoes, and was very quiet!"

D'Artagnan looked up, smiling. "Yes, you were very quiet, but I heard the creaking of the stairs as you made your way down them, and also your breeches were rubbing together as you approached the door."

Philippe gazed at him for a long moment, amazed that he could detect something as minute as the faint whisper of cloth rubbing together as he walked. And he had not even noticed the stairs creaking as he had descended. His eyes were shining with admiration. "Porthos is right. You are good."

D'Artagnan turned his attention back to the straps, his expression mildly amused. "Porthos thinks I'm good?"

"He said you always know when others are around; that you can tell when someone is watching you. And Athos says that you see everything."

D'Artagnan chuckled, softly. "Not everything, I am afraid. I have the scars from old wounds to prove it. I have no special gifts. It is simple observation from a lifetime in the service of the king." He glanced at the clock on the mantle, which read 4:20. "What are you doing up so early?"

"The thunder woke me," he said, sitting down at the table across from him. He indicated the leather straps. "What are you doing?"

"I found a damaged bridle in the stable yesterday when I collected my tack for your riding lesson. It has a broken strap, so, since I was unable to sleep, I decided to put my time to good use by attempting to repair it. It is quite simple, actually; simply a matter of cutting some strips of leather to the right size, punching the holes for the buckle, and attaching it to the headstall. I was able to find all the tools I needed. However, it has been a long time since I have done work such as this. At the palace, we have stable hands to look after our tack."

Philippe fell silent, watching as the Musketeer continued to work on the bridle, tapping holes in the leather strap at intervals with the awl and hammer. When completed, the holes would make the strap adjustable, so that it would fit comfortably on any horse.

Looking up from the strap, his gaze fell upon his father's face, studying his appearance. D'Artagnan was decidedly handsome, but his sharply chiseled features and dark hair were very unlike Philippe's softer features and golden brown hair. Other than their blue eyes and the fact that they were about the same height, there was very little resemblance between them that the young man could see.

D'Artagnan could feel his son's eyes upon him, studying his features, and knew it was inevitable that the boy would have a myriad of questions regarding his origins. The amazing turns the boy's life had recently taken were bound to have inspired a great deal of curiosity, and he had known that it was only a matter of time before he was quizzed about them.

"You have questions," said the Musketeer.

Philippe stared at him, impressed. Again, D'Artagnan had been one step ahead of him. "Yes, but . . ." He hesitated, apparently uneasy about bringing up a subject that was very personal. "I mean no disrespect, but . . ." His voice trailed, and he averted his eyes to the tabletop, uncertain how to proceed.

"You may speak your mind," D'Artagnan encouraged as he continued to work on the leather straps. "After everything you have been through, I would say you have earned that right."

Philippe looked up again with searching eyes; searching for his roots, D'Artagnan realized. "Well, I was just wondering. My mother was married to the king, and the whole country believes that Louis is his son. That is why he is on the throne, because he is presumed to be the son of the king. How do you know . . . I mean, how can you be sure . . . " Again, his voice trailed.

"That you and Louis are my sons and not the king's?"

"Yes. I know that the others accepted it without question, and I know that I should too, but ---" Again, his voice trailed off, as if shamed that the thought had ever crossed his mind.

"It is a reasonable question, Philippe. Athos, Porthos, and Aramis did not question it because they knew that the king and queen lived apart their entire married lives. You could not have been aware of this, but it was a well-known fact that they did not like each other. It was difficult for them to even be in the same room together, let alone engage in marital behaviors. Many people feared that they would never produce an heir."

Philippe looked greatly relieved, and D'Artagnan realized that the young man had so readily accepted him as his father that he had been worried that his questions might reveal otherwise. "If they disliked each other so much, why did they get married?"

"It was an arranged marriage in which your mother had no say. She was a child bride, only fourteen years of age, and was married to him long before I ever arrived in Paris. In all those years, no child had come from their marriage. It is rumored that he preferred the company of his gentleman favorites, the king's companions, to the company of his wife. There may have been mistresses as well; that I do not know. What I do know is that he virtually ignored her and avoided being a husband to her. It was clearly a marriage for appearances sake, and I dare say that both of them were very unhappy."

Philippe fell silent for several moments, thinking about that and pondering an even deeper question. Finally, he asked, "But if they were not living together as husband and wife, the king must surely have realized that she had been with another man when she became pregnant. Did that not concern him?"

D'Artagnan's hand froze in mid air, the hammer poised over the head of the awl. He had expected many questions, but somehow he had not anticipated the most obvious one.

Aware that he had caught is father off guard, the boy averted his eyes again and apologized quickly. "Forgive me. I had no right to ask that. I overstepped my position."

After a long moment, D'Artagnan sighed heavily and placed the tools on the tabletop. Folding his arms on the edge of the table, he looked at the younger man who sat across from him. "Philippe, what happened between your mother and me was not a casual affair. I want to make sure you understand that. We never intended to act on the love that we felt for one another. It was a moment of weakness on our parts that led to yours and Louis' conception, and it was never repeated."

"I don't judge you," Philippe said, earnestly. "To the contrary, if you had not gotten together, I would not be here. So for that I am grateful."

D'Artagnan could not resist smiling at the sincere comments. "Still, what we did was a very serious offense, one that could have literally cost us our heads had we been caught."

"The guillotine?"

"Mm-hm. What we did was high treason, a very serious offense against the king and country, for we not only betrayed the king, we also compromised the integrity of the entire government."

Philippe lowered his gaze to the tabletop again, as if studying the wood grain as he thought of his mother being forced into a marriage she had not wanted, and longing to be with the man she loved. "It must have been very difficult for my mother, being trapped in a loveless marriage while loving someone else."

D'Artagnan nodded. "Yes, it was. I observed her from a distance, struggling with her unhappiness, even before we discovered that we had feelings for one another. Many people found it amusing that she and the king were so obviously mismatched, but I could not bring myself to laugh at her misfortune. She was far from her home and her family, and the loneliness and sadness I saw in her eyes touched me in ways I cannot even express."

"I know something of loneliness and isolation," Philippe admitted. 'Year after year, I was locked in that prison cell, with no hope of ever getting out. It must have been very similar for her."

"I imagine it was. When I first became a Musketeer, I rarely saw her except during festivities, when I was assigned the duty of guarding the ballroom. She and the king always entered together, shared a dance, and then she would retire to her room, her duty to the king's guests fulfilled. Even during the dances, I could not help but notice the despair in her eyes. Even now, I sometimes see her standing at her window during the daytime, staring out at the horizon, as if she was longing for freedom and a different life."

"Her own prison," Philippe said.

"Yes. But, to answer your question, the king himself unwittingly provided your mother with an answer to her dilemma. She had been noticing that the king was becoming intoxicated more and more often, presumably consumed by his own unhappiness. One evening, after she witnessed him staggering into his chamber following a late-night bout of drinking, she gave him sufficient time to get to his bed and fall asleep. Then she slipped through the passages and got into bed with him. When he awakened the next morning, he was shocked to find her there, but naturally assumed exactly what she had hoped he would assume – that he had been a husband to her that night. She took a great risk, for had he remembered that he had not invited her there, it would have guaranteed his wrath. Fortunately, her ploy worked, and because of that, she was soon able to announce that she was carrying a child. He did not question it, assuming that the child was his. He must have been greatly relieved, believing that his duty to the country was done." He lowered his gaze. "It was the best thing that could have happened for Anne's sake, yet it was also the worst, for it meant that I had to step back from my child, and see him raised as the son of another man."

"That must have been difficult for you."

D'Artagnan nodded. "Yes. We had escaped the guillotine, but we both knew it was imperative that we back away from our relationship. Such a thing could never happen again. We stopped seeing each other, except on affairs of the state when it could not be prevented, and always our meetings were formal. Duty and responsibility took a forefront in our lives. We forced our heads to rule our hearts, and we avoided ever being alone together again. No one watching us would have known that our hearts were breaking. She spent her confinement in her apartments, never venturing outside. I saw her once at her window, her abdomen swollen with the life we had created, and I wanted so badly to be a part of that life. It grieved me terribly that I could not."

He fell silent, and Philippe knew his father was thinking about that long-ago moment. After a time, he picked up his tools again and resumed his work on the bridle.

"You still love her, don't you?" Philippe asked. "After all this time, all these years, you still love her."

"My love for her is eternal," he replied without hesitation.

"Now that the old king is dead, why can't you get together?"

"I would like nothing better, but I am but a Musketeer, a servant, far beneath her. The scandal would be tremendous."

Several moments of silence passed as Philippe processed the information he had been given. Finally, he shook his head with disapproval. "There is no fairness in such expectations. She should be able to marry the man she loves. It should not be the concern of anyone else."

D'Artagnan shrugged. "Things are the way they are, and traditions and beliefs which are passed down through the ages are not easily altered. Most widowed queens eventually retire to a convent. I have lived in fear that Anne would follow that tradition, for I would probably never see her again if that happened."

"Perhaps if I am king, things can change favorably for you," Philippe suggested.

D'Artagnan looked up again, quickly. "I appreciate the thought, but you cannot change what has always been. You have no idea what you are suggesting. There would be much gossip and disapproval. As much as I would love to be with her, to share our lives as husband and wife, I could not ask her to endure that kind of criticism, and I do not want you to fall under that kind of scrutiny. That is something that Louis would never, ever do, and you must not call attention to yourself by even suggesting such a thing. And furthermore, I do not want you basing your decision to become king on how you might help me."

Philippe nodded, visibly disappointed. "I'm sorry. I just –"

D'Artagnan reached across the table and affectionately grasped his son by the wrist. "You have a kind heart, Philippe, and you are very considerate to think of me in such a way, but you must be careful about your behavior, especially at first. Any changes that you wish to make must be made slowly and must initially be minor ones, things that will not attract unwanted attention. You must not take up the problems of your mother and me. You have enough to consider without adding to your burden."

"I lie awake and worry sometimes at night," the boy confessed. "I'm not sure I'm up to ruling the country. Louis has known from the beginning that he was a prince and that he would be ascending to the throne upon the king's death, and he was specifically trained for that, but I have only recently discovered my heritage, not the least of which is that I have an opportunity to seize a throne which is not my right by birth."

"Philippe, we have been through that and you must move beyond it. Even though you are not a blood relation to the former king, there is no one else who is qualified to take the throne. The old king did not leave a direct heir, so bringing all this into the open would be detrimental to everyone concerned, and could even bring down the country. The only way to make a smooth transition is to place the one person on the throne who looks exactly like Louis. That is you, Philippe."

Philippe was nodding his head as his father spoke, understanding the reasons even though they did not alleviate his inner concerns. "What if I take the throne, and then fail?"

"You will not fail. Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and I will be there to help you settle in and establish yourself. We will advise you on the tough decisions until you are comfortable with making them on your own. And your mother will be there as well, and she would be delighted to help you in any way possible."

Philippe gazed over D'Artagnan's shoulder toward the window, which brightened briefly with a flash of lightning. Thunder rumbled, and a few moments later, they heard the soft, soothing patter of rain on the windowpane. Philippe's thoughts drifted to his mother, and he wondered if he would ever see her if he declined the throne. He would never be able to enter Paris otherwise, for his resemblance to Louis would be immediately noticed.

Across the table from him, D'Artagnan attached the strap to the bridle by threading it over the crown. "All done," he announced. "Not a professional job to be sure, but it is serviceable."

He set the bridle aside and to conserve them he blew out all the candles except one, which he left on the center of the table. In the shadows that fell over the room, the Musketeer stood up to stretch his legs and his back. He then went to the window to look out across the street, although he could see little through the darkness and the rain. "The rain will be good for the crops," he said, quietly. "I have noticed that the farmers have been carrying barrels of water in their wagons to the fields from the river. This will greatly relieve their burden, especially if it keeps up for a while."

Philippe lingered at the table for several moments, watching him. Feelings were stirring inside him; pleasant, yet unfamiliar, feelings. Being in the presence of his father seemed to strengthen those new sensations, and even though he had never known them before, he understood what it was. For the first time in his life, he was experiencing feelings of love; not the deep affection he had felt for Yvette, the woman who had raised him, but genuine unconditional love that consumed and filled him in ways he had never imagined.

"I am glad for the farmers, but will the rain interfere with my riding lesson?" he asked after a short time.

D'Artagnan smiled over his shoulder at his son. "If the paddock is too muddy, we can move to a grassy area outside the walls once the rain has stopped," D'Artagnan replied. "And if the rain continues all day, you can ride up and down the aisles in the stable, so do not worry; you will have your lesson."

Philippe felt immediately guilty. "I suppose I sound selfish, worrying about my riding lesson when the farmers here need rain for their crops."

D'Artagnan's expression was one of great fondness. "You are not selfish, Philippe. There is a difference between selfishness and eagerness, and I do not fault you for being eager to complete your lessons."

"I am," Philippe agreed. "There are so many things I want us to do. Like take a ride across the countryside together."

"We shall do it," D'Artagnan promised. "I also promised that we would go fishing, and we will do that as well."

"I look forward to it."

The darkness of the room began to relax the younger man, and he yawned, sleepily and rubbed his eyes.

D'Artagnan smiled. "There is still an hour or more before daylight. Why don't you go back up to bed? You look like you could use some more sleep."

Philippe yawned again, bigger than before. "I think maybe I should before I fall asleep here at the table." He stood up and walked to the door, but then turned back to his father. "I appreciate you telling me about you and Mother."

"I will answer any question you might have. I will see you at breakfast."

Slowly, Philippe climbed back up the stairs and lay down on the bed without bothering to undress. Almost immediately, he was lulled to sleep by the gentle drumming of the rain on the eaves.

With the bridle completed, D'Artagnan carried it and the candle down the corridor and into the kitchen. The candle was placed on the table, but the bridle was hung on a peg near the door. It would be returned to the stable later, after the rain had stopped, but for the moment he moved to the door and opened it wide, allowing the freshly scented air to permeate the room.

The thunder was now just a distant rumbling, but on the horizon he could see occasional flashes of lightning. Rain continued to patter softly on the ground, forming puddles on the hard surface, and streamed down the rooftops and over the eaves. Leaning against the door jamb, he folded his arms across his chest to watch it, marveling that he had found such contentment in this small village.

Life at the palace was very stressful, keeping constant watch on an irresponsible king who took neither his own safety nor his responsibility as seriously as he should. Always, there was one crisis or another that required his attention, from the random young recruit accidentally injured during training maneuvers to the occasional breach of security that threatened the life of the monarch.

In this village, he was isolated from the demands that had become his daily routine, and he welcomed the tranquility. It soothed him, leaving him with a sense of peace that he had not known in many years. His only anxiety was the one that would always remain; his heart ached for his queen, the love of his life, but he would never find relief from that yearning no matter where he was.

He now began to gain some understanding of why she had become a pious recluse, shunning public functions, remaining secluded in her apartments, emerging only in the evening to walk to the chapel for her prayers. He had thought that it had been to avoid him, for whenever they encountered one another in public, she kept her eyes averted, as if afraid that he would see into her heart; but now he knew that the guilt and sorrow of being unable to free her son from the prison must have been an overwhelming burden to bear. Her trips to the chapel had clearly been to pray for the son she had never seen since the moment of his birth.

As the dusky light of early dawn began to turn the eastern horizon from black to gray, the sound of booted footsteps approaching broke into the softer sounds of the rain. He listened carefully to the stride as it came down the corridor, and easily identified who it was.

"Good morning, Aramis," he said without turning around as the individual entered the kitchen.

Aramis pulled up short, amazed. "Do you have eyes in the back of your head, D'Artagnan?"

The Musketeer glanced over his shoulder with an amused smile. "Nothing so miraculous as that. The three of you each have a different and distinct stride. I do not have to see you to know which of you is approaching. All I have to do is listen."

Aramis smiled in reply, finger combing the tangles out of his wavy hair. "As head bodyguard to the king, it appears you have had to develop senses that the rest of us take for granted."

"There is always the threat of assassination," D'Artagnan acknowledged. He paused before speaking the painful words, "Especially with this king."

Aramis's expression was sober. "I heard there were a number of attempts over the past couple of years."

"Unfortunately, you heard right. I have had to be constantly vigilant; I can never let my guard down. I have devoted my life to his safety, even though I know he takes my presence for granted. He is careless, always assuming that I will be there to protect him."

"And so you have been."

"Yes. And so I have. But there have been close calls for both of us. All three of you have commented on my awareness of the things around me, but I have to be constantly alert. It is imperative that I know the position and identity of every person who is near the king, and whether or not that person is a threat."

"That degree of vigilance must be taxing," Aramis said.

"I never realized until now just how taxing it is." Changing the subject, he said, "You're up early."

"I always rise early for morning prayers," the priest replied. "How long have you been up?"

"Some while, actually. I heard the storm coming in, and was unable to go back to sleep."

Aramis's eyes fell upon the repaired bridle that D'Artagnan had hung on the peg near the door. "I see you put the time to good use. I was less ambitious, I'm afraid. I was startled awake several times by the thunder, but I simply turned over and went back to sleep. The rain is very soothing, once the thunder moves out of the area." He observed his friend for several moments, noticing differences in him that most people would not perceive. "I detect a profound change in you, D'Artagnan. You seem to have found an inner peace."

"That is true. I do not know if it is this place, the casual atmosphere here, being in the company of the three of you again, the release of the burden I carried for so many years, or a combination of all of it, but I have found a feeling of peace here that I have never known before. A part of me wishes I could remain here forever with Philippe; to never go back to Court."

Aramis moved to the door and leaned his shoulder against the opposite jamb, facing the Musketeer. "You two have become very fond of each other."

"He is easy to love, and that will help him become a good king. For the first time ever, I know what it is like to feel pride for my son. I never felt that with Louis. I love him, as a father loves his child, but it has always grieved me terribly to see him raised as an arrogant, self-centered fop with no regard for anything except his own pleasures. I had to watch him grow up from a distance, unable to teach him proper conduct, how a gentleman should behave, and to have regard for others. I had hoped, as he matured, that they would come to him naturally, but alas that has not happened. If anything, he has become even more self-indulgent. He abuses his power, and I have seen him do many things that disgust me. But he is still my son."

Aramis lowered his gaze and cleared his throat, uncomfortably. Now that they were alone together, it was a good time to bring up the subject he had been dreading. "D'Artagnan, I've been meaning to talk to you about Louis and what will happen to him once the transfer is made."

"I know what you are planning to do with him, Aramis," he replied, somberly, his eyes riveted on the puddle of water that was forming just off the stoop. "It is painful for me to accept, and it will be especially painful for his mother to accept, but . . . " He paused and closed his eyes briefly. "I will not prevent it."

Aramis was greatly relieved. "We feared you would object."

"The part of me that is his father does object," D'Artagnan said, honestly. "But to fully understand humility, an emotion he has never known, he must first understand the suffering he has placed on others, and there is no harsher teacher than experience. It hurts me to think of him being imprisoned and forced to wear the mask that he condemned his brother to wear, but I know that for a while it must be so."

Aramis's head came up, startled, "For a while?"

"Ever since I made the decision to join you in replacing Louis, I have struggled with what will be done with him once he is off the throne. And I have found only one alternative to a permanent existence in the Bastille."

"What is that?" Aramis asked with unease.

"There is a house in the country that was owned by a branch of the royal family that has since died out. The property has passed back to palace, but is never used. I have no idea what his plans are for it, but I would like to have it modified to contain Louis, so that he might live out his life there."

Aramis was shaking his head with great worry. "It would be a risk, D'Artagnan. Should he escape --"

"Obviously, there are details that need to be worked out, but we must work them out. I cannot bear the thought of him spending the rest of his life in the filth of the Bastille wearing that damned mask. He is my son, Aramis. I cannot . . . ." He broke off, shaking his head slowly. "I cannot bear it."

Aramis placed a comforting hand on D'Artagnan's shoulder. "We will discuss this with Athos and Porthos, and try to work something out," he agreed. "Plans for the modifications will need to be drawn up, and the work will not be able to commence until Philippe is on the throne, for altering the house must come at the king's orders, so Louis will have to spend some time in the Bastille. That cannot be avoided, but I will see to it that the work is done as rapidly as possible. You have my word." He paused, briefly, thinking of the pros and cons of such a plan. "If the details can be worked out, it would go a long way in convincing the queen to go along with our plans, for you and she will be able to visit him if you wish."

Aramis felt some of the tension go out of his friend's shoulder. "She will appreciate that, but I fear he will not welcome my visits, for he will know of my betrayal, of the role I will play in removing him from the throne."

"Think of it not as a betrayal, D'Artagnan. By removing him from the throne and confining him to a secure place, you will be saving his life, for if things remain as they are, eventually he will be assassinated."

"I know. But what kind of life will it be?"

"It will be a better life than he would have at the Bastille. There, he would be confined to a dark, damp cell, while at the estate he will have a certain amount of freedom and clean rooms to live in, good food and fresh air. You must draw comfort from that, D'Artagnan, for there is no other way."

"I know. But it is so hard; so very hard. I have one request that must be adhered to; Louis must never know that I am his father. In taking away his throne, we must not take away his identity, for it is all he will have left. Besides, he could do a great deal of harm to all of us if he decided to use that knowledge against Philippe. I know him well enough to know that he would do everything he could to upset Philippe's reign, even if it meant exposing himself as the bastard son of a Musketeer."

Aramis nodded. 'You are probably right."

"Does Anne know that Philippe is free?"

In response to the long moment of silence, D'Artagnan turned toward his friend, and saw a shocked expression on the priest's face.

"Forgive me," Aramis said quickly. "It startles me to hear you call her by her name instead of by title. The closeness the two of you shared still astonishes me. At the moment, the queen mother believes her second son is dead. We left a body in Philippe's cell wearing an identical mask, and I am quite certain that the jailers will have notified Louis by now that the man in the mask died of the fever, and he will have passed that information on to his mother."

Concern clouded D'Artagnan's brow. "The grief she must be experiencing, believing that her son is dead. She must be told as soon as possible."

"I intended to inform her of our plans when I traveled to Paris for the meeting at the docks, but circumstances took that out of my hands. Perhaps you should accompany me when I go. You were . . . You two were obviously very close . . . I'm sure she will be happy to learn that Philippe survives, but I may not be the appropriate one to inform her of the rest of it."

D'Artagnan nodded. "Yes. The news of what will be done to Louis should come from me."

With the matter settled, Aramis started to turn around, intending to stoke up the fire in the hearth, but was stopped by D'Artagnan.

"Aramis."

The priest turned to face him again.

"Thank you for freeing my son from that prison. I owe you a debt that I can never repay."

"You forget; I'm the one who put him there in the first place."

"But you were under Louis' orders, and you did not do so willingly."

"No, I did not," Aramis agreed. "My conscience has been in turmoil ever since. But you came here to save my life. You owe me no debt, D'Artagnan. If anything, I owe you."

"Friends help each other," D'Artagnan told him.

Aramis smiled, feeling a weight lift from him. "That they do," he agreed. "And rest assured, I will help you with your plans for Louis."


	16. Chapter Sixteen

Sixteen

"He says he feels ill and is not sleeping well," Aramis informed the others as he pulled out his usual seat at the head of the table and sat down for breakfast. Porthos's chair was conspicuously empty, which had compelled the priest to go upstairs to check on him.

"I don't envy him the next few days," D'Artagnan said.

Aramis reached for the platter of bread. "Well, I wouldn't worry too much about it. I seriously doubt that he can accomplish this foolish notion of quitting the drink, anyway. It is a part of who he is, and the sooner we all accept that, the better."

"We have all enjoyed drinking over the years," Athos agreed, drawing a quick nod from Aramis, who assumed that he was backing him up. "However, Porthos's drinking has progressed far beyond excessive. We used to drink together to celebrate our victories or to drown our sorrows, but lately Porthos has been drinking from the moment he wakes up until the moment he goes to bed. I haven't seen him completely sober since we began this project."

"It is a way of life for him since the death of his wife," Aramis said, reiterating what he had told D'Artagnan a few days prior.

"Loneliness is probably the reason he started drinking," Athos said.

"Porthos isn't lonely!" Aramis scoffed. "He was saddened by the loss of his wife, as any man would be, but he has moved past that. He frequents a brothel in Paris, and I can attest to the fact that he spends a great deal of time there surrounded by women who are quite eager to satisfy all his wants and needs."

D'Artagnan looked up, arching his eyebrow curiously, wondering just how Aramis would be so certain of that fact, then decided he really did not want to know. Some things were best left alone. He caught a quick glance from Philippe, and realized that the same thought had crossed his mind.

"And then he goes back to his estate alone." Athos shook his head, slowly, regretfully. "We should never have drifted apart. We were friends for eternity, _the Inseparables_, and yet we allowed this separation to occur. If we had stayed closer, we would have seen this happening to him and perhaps been able to stop it before it reached this level. I never thought he could get in this bad of shape."

"I have kept in touch with Porthos, and before we came here I was seeing him nearly every week. It is certain that he loves his drink, but I just do not believe the difference in him is as dramatic as you seem to think."

"Perhaps you weren't looking. Aramis, he tried to kill himself a few weeks ago! You do not think that indicates a serious problem?"

Something flashed in Aramis's eyes at the accusation he believed he had heard in Athos's words; words that seemed to suggest that he had been inattentive to his friend's deterioration into the bottle. He looked back at him from the length of the long table, then shoved back his plate, irritably, and rested his elbow on the table as he stroked his mustache, but he did not respond verbally to the question.

Athos knew he had struck a nerve, and backed off. "What is done is done. But solving the problem is not easy," he continued, "and I am certain he is having a rough time of it. We must all be patient with him and offer whatever encouragement he needs to help him get through this."

"He will likely go through hell and back before this is over," D'Artagnan said.

"Which is exactly why he was doomed to failure before he even began," Aramis said, his tone of voice indicating that he was still offended. "Porthos does not tolerate discomfort well, and he enjoys his drinking too much to give it up. Now that he is experiencing some discomfort without it, it is only a matter of time before he gives up and seeks solace in the bottom of a bottle once again. Quite frankly, I am surprised he has lasted this long."

"You have so little faith in anything except yourself," Athos accused with a scowl of disapproval. "If that is how you intend to speak to him of it, then you are probably right. You tend to trivialize things too much, Aramis. Porthos can beat this, but he needs our support. Yours, especially, since you and he were always close."

"Athos is right," D'Artagnan agreed. "It is not easy to stop drinking, and things are going to get much worse before it gets better. He is going to become very, very sick, and if he fails, we will have to shoulder some of the responsibility for not helping him through it."

Athos nodded his agreement. "This is serious, Aramis. We need your help. _Porthos_ needs your help."

Aramis sighed, clearly in disagreement, but finally shrugged. "I see you are both against me in this matter. He is complaining of a headache. I shall make him some of my herbal tea and see if that will help."

"Well, that is a start," Athos said. "But you are going to have to do a lot more than that. He needs _you_, not your tea! You must start offering support and encouragement instead of these remarks that ridicule his resolve. You are a priest! Do what you have been trained to do!"

Aramis's eyes darkened, feeling stung that they opposed him on this issue and that they apparently believed him derelict in his duty as a minister of the faith. "I am very much aware that I am a priest, Athos," he said, quietly.

"There are times when it is not an obvious fact," Athos retorted.

Aramis raised his hands as if in surrender. "Oh, very well. I shall put forth the effort to assist Porthos in this matter."

As soon as breakfast was over and Angelina and her sisters had completed the task of cleaning the kitchen, Aramis went to work making his foul tasting and foul smelling brew, which drove the other men into the drawing room to escape the odors. With outdoor activities postponed due to the rain that continued to patter on the roof, Philippe again went to work on his penmanship, learning to duplicate his brother's style of script.

The rain stopped mid-morning, and the sun finally came out to begin the task of drying the wet landscape.

Porthos failed to show up again for lunch, and again Aramis carried up a mug of his home-made pain reliever, but was dismayed to discover that Porthos had not drunk the first mug. He came back down the stairs, muttering to himself that his old friend was not cooperating.

In the middle of the afternoon, D'Artagnan walked out to the paddock to view the condition of the surface. To no great surprise, the soft wet soil was a sloppy, muddy mess. If used for the riding lesson, he knew the gelding would sink to its pasterns in the soft mud and it would not provide a pleasant surface on which to fall should Philippe be thrown.

Philippe came up behind his father while D'Artagnan was deliberating over the paddock, and his eyes fell upon the muddy surface, knowing that it did not bode well with his lesson. "Does this mean I will not get to ride today?" he asked.

"No. We have other options. Come, let us saddle your horse and we will commence with the lesson."

The two men went inside the stable and saddled and bridled the horse inside the stall, then, just as they were departing the stable, D'Artagnan returned to the tack room and found a long driving line. He then led the way outside the city walls with Philippe walking swiftly alongside with his horse.

When they found a suitable spot, D'Artagnan attached the driving line to the snaffle ring.

Philippe was watching, curiously. "What is that for?"

"Because you have only been on the horse's back the one time and lacking the confines of the paddock fence, I think it is best if we use some precautions. The horse may be feisty after the rain, and this will offer more control of him. I will explain as we go. First, mount up."

Philippe gathered his reins as he had been instructed the day before, and carefully mounted. He felt his sore muscles protest the movement, but except for a twitch of his cheek, he managed to maintain a neutral expression as he pulled himself successfully into the saddle.

"You are improving," D'Artagnan praised.

"I've been practicing, as you taught me."

"Are you a bit sore today?"

"More than a bit, I'm afraid," the boy said as he shifted position, trying to place less pressure on certain parts of the anatomy. "In places I would rather not mention!"

D'Artagnan laughed. "The soreness will work itself out as you ride. Pick up your other stirrup."

As he had seen his father do the day before, he maneuvered his foot until he had worked the toe of his shoe into the stirrup, then waited for D'Artagnan to give him instructions.

"All right, I'm going to back away as far as the line will allow, and you will walk around me. This will keep the horse in a circle and encourage him to behave." As he spoke, D'Artagnan began backing away, releasing the length of the driving line until he reached the end of it. "Now, squeeze with your legs."

Philippe obeyed, and they horse moved off at a controlled walk, making a circle around the Musketeer. His reins were loose, and his posture relaxed. It was all too obvious that the horse was following D'Artagnan's instructions, not Philippe's.

"No, you're relying on me to control the horse with the driving line," D'Artagnan said. "Shorten your reins. I want you to control him yourself. Tell him what you want him to do through your legs and your hands. All I'm doing is keeping him in a circle, the same way the paddock fence would. And sit up straight."

_Damn!_ The expletive stopped just short of Philippe's tongue. Was he never going to remember to sit up straight? As instructed, he shortened his reins until he could feel the horse's mouth and straightened his back, determined that he would strive harder to work on his posture. They walked several times around D'Artagnan, while the Musketeer observed him from the ground.

"Excellent. Now, stop him and turn him around, and walk the other direction."

Philippe drew back on the reins, stopping the horse, but hesitated to turn him around. "Do you need to switch sides on the rein?"

"No. Just make the turn toward me, and the rein will pass under his chin."

Philippe pulled on the inside rein, turning the horse toward his father as he turned to face the opposite direction. As D'Artagnan had said it would, the rein passed beneath the horse's chin.

After walking several more circles, the Musketeer was pleased with the young man's progress. "At the walk, the only thing you really need to work on is keeping your back straight. The position of your hands and legs are perfect."

"I guess my posture was not too good in the prison," Philippe said, lamely.

"You must work harder with Aramis on that lesson. You must learn to sit up straight without thinking about it. It must become second nature to you."

"I will," he promised.

"I think you are ready to trot," D'Artagnan said. "It is not the most comfortable gait, especially for the beginner, but it must be mastered before we move to the canter. Squeeze with your legs until you feel your mount change gaits. Keep your back straight and maintain contact with his mouth. Be careful not to jerk on the reins. He has a tender mouth."

Philippe squeezed with his legs, and felt a surge of exhilaration as the horse willingly stepped out into the faster gait, but his excitement was replaced by an immediate sense of failure when he began bouncing roughly in the saddle, knowing that it was not supposed to look like that. Realizing that the reins were jerking in his need to hang onto something that would steady him, he grasped the pommel, thereby losing all control of the horse.

"Push your heels down in the stirrups, and allow your legs to absorb the impact. You need to move with the horse, not against him."

Philippe attempted to do his father's bidding, but found that it was not easy. Unaccustomed to the brisk up and down motion of the horse's back as it trotted, he continued to bounce no matter how hard he tried to comply with the directions. One foot jerked free of the stirrup, and fearful that he would bounce right off the animal's back, he released his hold on the pommel and drew back on the reins to stop him. The horse came to such an abrupt halt that the young man, already off balance from the bouncing and the loss of the stirrup, fell forward onto the heavily maned neck. Startled, the gelding sidestepped quickly, and Philippe, unable to recover from the sudden movement, slid right off the side and landed heavily on the ground.

The gelding spooked and leaped away from its fallen rider with a snort, but was restrained by the long line held by the Musketeer. It trotted off a short distance and stopped, looking back with pricked ears.

D'Artagnan was at Philippe's side in an instant. "Are you all right, son?"

Shamefaced, the young man got up quickly to minimize the wetness that was seeping into his trousers from the rain-soaked grass. "I feel like a fool!" he said, brushing his hand across a wet patch on the seat of his breeches.

"There is not a horseman alive who has not fallen off his mount at one time or another," D'Artagnan told him. "You get up and try again. What happened?"

"I lost my stirrup."

"You must keep your heels down, with your weight in them. That will prevent such an incident from occurring."

"I know," Philippe said. "But saying it and doing it are two different matters entirely, especially when you are bouncing all over the horse's back."

D'Artagnan unfastened the driving line from the snaffle ring. For a brief moment of utter despair, Philippe believed his father was throwing in the towel, giving up on him completely. Dropping the line to the ground, the Musketeer took the reins and mounted in that enviously smooth, graceful movement that continued to elude Philippe.

"The correct position is this," he said, using his own body and position to demonstrate. "Heels are down. Grip with your knees. The small of your back must be straight but somewhat relaxed. This will allow your hips to move with the horse so that your buttocks remain on the saddle. Keep the reins together in front of you, just above the pommel."

With Philippe watching from the ground, D'Artagnan nudged the horse into a brisk, springy trot, working in a circle around him. The boy watched, impressed that his father's backside seemed glued to the saddle.

"Unfortunately, there is no exercise I can show you to help you practice this part of the lesson," D'Artagnan said. "You must simply work on the trot until you settle into the horse's stride. And you will become comfortable with it, son. It will only take time."

He continued to trot around the young man several more times, allowing his son to watch him, then he drew in the reins and stopped. Dismounting, he passed the reins back to Philippe.

With a discouraged sigh, Philippe gathered the reins again and mounted. D'Artagnan placed his hand on the small of Philippe's back, something he would never do with Louis for fear of losing it, and felt the tautness beneath his palm. "Already, you're tensing your muscles," he observed. "Let your muscles relax."

Philippe forced his body to relax.

"Better. When you're trotting, you must concentrate on relaxing your back, just like you're doing now. Push your weight down into your stirrups."

He reattached the driving line, then stepped back until he reached the end of it, and nodded for Philippe to begin.

The horse began trotting again, but once again, Philippe found himself bouncing up and down as harshly as before. Around and around they went, with the young man flopping around on the horse's back like a sack of potatoes. The gelding worked up a light sweat in the warm, humid air, and sweat glistened on Philippe's face, but D'Artagnan would not allow him to stop.

"You are fighting it, Philippe," he said. "Try to relax."

Finally, just when the young man began to think himself a complete failure, he began to find the rhythm. Slowly, the jarring impact began to lessen and the space between his rear end and the saddle began to diminish as he grew accustomed to the gait, and his body began to accept it and move with it.

"You're doing much better, Philippe," D'Artagnan said encouragingly. "That is exactly the position you want."

Hope surged. Perhaps he could do this after all! Philippe concentrated hard on relaxing his back, allowing himself to move with the horse, and after a while the seat of his trousers remained against the saddle. Philippe beamed down at his father as D'Artagnan approached, coiling up the line.

"You're doing very well, Philippe," he praised. "So well, in fact, that I'm going to remove the line and allow you to take full control of the horse yourself." He unfastened the line from the snaffle ring, and stepped back. "All right, trot your horse around me a couple of times in a widening circle."

Philippe complied, trotting the horse at a controlled pace around the Musketeer, increasing the distance with each circle. Having total control of the horse in an open space without being confined to a paddock or assisted by a driving line was very different than the security he had felt before, yet the horse responded readily to his touch, and his confidence soared.

"Excellent. Now, do a couple of figure eights."

Again, Philippe obeyed, using the reins to guide his mount into the requested pattern. Finally, D'Artagnan gestured for him to come to him, and when he did, he said, "Tomorrow, we will continue to work on the trot, and when you are comfortable with it we will move up to the canter." When Philippe started to dismount, D'Artagnan suggested, "You can ride him up to the stable if you wish."

Philippe was all smiles as he rode his horse beside his father all the way to the stable, where Athos was waiting. He had been watching the lesson from the stone wall.

"You're doing very well, Philippe," Athos said. "But as soon as your horse is cared for, it is time for another dancing lesson."

Philippe barely suppressed his groan of dread, which drew a smile from both of the older men.

"It isn't my favorite lesson either, young man," he reminded him, "but it must be done and it must be done well if you are to pass for Louis."

Philippe dismounted, and began unfastening the girth on the saddle, delaying the dancing lesson as long as possible. The horse was walked slowly for a while, cooling the animal down, but all too soon, it was back in its stall, and he was forced to face the dreaded dancing lesson.

D'Artagnan watched as his son trudged back up to the house, looking like a young man going to his own execution, and was unable to suppress a smile. Love and pride filled his heart, and he decided that the young man deserved a reward for all his hard work. Removing a small ax from the stable, he carried it down to the grove of trees and searched until he found two strong poles that served his needs. He took them back up to the village, and seated himself on the low fortification wall across from the stable, propping his right boot on a flat outcropping of stone that protruded from the waist high barrier at knee level, giving him a pleasantly casual appearance.

In one hand he held one of the poles, while in his right hand was held a knife which he used to trim off the leaves and twigs, making a smooth surface. A second pole leaned against the wall beside him, awaiting the same attention.

This was an activity in which he had not engaged since childhood, and he felt happy and content in this quiet, peaceful village, far from the hustle and bustle of Paris. It was a time that he wished would never end, but a week had already passed, and time was running out for this personal time he shared with his son. Soon, Philippe would be forced to make a decision whether to return with him to Paris to assume his brother's throne, or go his own way in life.

As he continued to whittle on the pole, Porthos emerged from the house, paused briefly to look around as if uncertain where he wanted to go, and then spotted his friend seated on the stone wall.

D'Artagnan watched him approach out of the corner of his eye, pretending that he was not scrutinizing the ex-Musketeer's appearance as thoroughly as he actually was. Porthos was, quite simply, a wreck. Ever since giving up the drink several days prior, the older man was experiencing the expected alcohol withdrawal, and he was not handling it well. His hair and clothing were disheveled, and his doublet was buttoned up unevenly, giving him a distinctly unkept appearance.

Porthos sat down beside him and watched for several moments as his friend whittled on the pole. Finally, he said, "D'Artagnan, I do not know if I can tolerate this much longer. Look at me!" He held out his hands, palms down and fingers spread, to emphasize the trembling that had plagued him since yesterday. "I am shaking like a leaf on a windy day!" He clenched his hands together in an effort to steady them. "I cannot make it stop!"

D'Artagnan observed the trembling hands and heard the tremor in his voice. "Unfortunately, that is to be expected, Porthos. I fear it will get even worse before it gets better."

Porthos appeared horrified. "Worse? How could it get any worse than this? I have never felt this bad my entire life!"

"I have known men who have gone through exactly what you are going through now. There will be some tough times before it will get better. But it will get better, my friend, I assure you. You must be strong enough to ride it out."

"I do not know if I am strong enough to do that," Porthos lamented. "I am even more worthless now than I was before! I am tense and nervous, and my head hurts all the time! Aramis made me some of that foul-tasting brew of his to relieve the pain, but it has not helped. My head throbs like a drum. I am exhausted because I cannot sleep at night." He pressed his hands between his thighs in an effort to control the trembling, but it was apparent that his legs were shaking as well. "I cannot stop shaking! I hate feeling like this! At least the drink relaxed me."

D'Artagnan placed his hand on Porthos's shoulder in an effort to comfort his friend, but he knew there was little comfort to offer the distressed man at that moment. He could feel the uncontrollable trembling beneath his hand. "Trust me, Porthos. Given time, it will pass."

"I do trust you, D'Artagnan. It is I that I do not trust! Everyone is working hard to train Philippe in the things he must know; everyone except me! I was going to teach him to shoot a musket, but I do not trust myself to even hold a loaded weapon." He pointed to his eyes in a gesture of extreme agitation. "I am even seeing double! How can I be of use to anyone like this?"

"In a few days, your hands and eyes will begin to grow steady again. It will take determination, but think of the reward at the end of it all. You will be the man you once were; steady of hand and eye, a man to be reckoned with!"

Porthos fell silent for several moments, thinking about the respect he had always seen in the eyes of his opponents when he was younger, and it seemed to calm him a bit. "I was indeed a man to be reckoned with, was I not?"

"Absolutely," D'Artagnan agreed. "And you will be again. As for the shooting lessons, you offered your estate for Philippe to reside until the exchange is made. If you are unable to teach him here, you may teach him there. There is still time."

Porthos nodded. "Yes, I can do that. Thank you for understanding, D'Artagnan. I know Aramis tries to help, but sometimes he only makes me feel worse than before. And the wine is always nearby! I know where he keeps it, and I have to walk past that cupboard every day! You have no idea how hard it is to walk past it and not help myself to a drink!"

D'Artagnan looked up from his whittling, and his eyes met those of his friend. He had not considered the temptation Porthos might experience during his weakest moments. "Then we shall remove it from the house."

"Aramis will not like that," Porthos said. "He likes having it handy."

"Aramis will understand. Have you seen Doctor Bonniere? Perhaps he can offer you some guidance in beating this addiction. And I'm fairly certain he will have pain relievers that will not taste quite as foul as Aramis's," he added with a wink. "And probably work a lot better."

"I had not thought of seeking his assistance," Porthos admitted. "That volatile brew that Aramis makes always threatens to come back up as soon as I swallow it."

D'Artagnan chuckled, softly, remembering his one encounter with Aramis's herbal tea. He hoped never to experience it again. "I know what you mean!"

The sick man fell silent for several moments, pondering the Musketeer's suggestion. "That is a good idea about Doctor Bonniere. He has probably encountered problems such as mine before, eh?"

"I should think so."

"I shall do that this very day." Once again, his eyes fell upon the pole that was being meticulously trimmed. "What is that you are doing?"

"I am making a couple of fishing poles. Right now, Athos is giving Philippe a dancing lesson, which he hates. When he is finished with that, I will take him fishing."

"That is an excellent idea, D'Artagnan. He will like that. I haven't been fishing since I was a boy . . . many years ago." A frown creased his brow, as if he was trying to remember just how many years ago that had been.

D'Artagnan laughed softly. "Do not think about that, Porthos, or you will only depress yourself again! Think only of the good times that you have left to live."

Porthos nodded, then cringed when the movement made his head throb even worse. "Yes, I have many years of enjoyment yet to fulfill." He leaned closer, as if to reveal a secret. "Tell no one of this, but I would very much like to take Angelina back to Paris with me when we go. I think I am falling in love with her. Her patience with me, her willingness to wait for me, says a lot about her, right?"

D'Artagnan's mustache twitched as he struggled to keep from smiling at the implications of that remark. Typically, circumstances were the other way around, with the man waiting for the woman. "Indeed it does. You are a lucky man, Porthos, to have found love again. I am happy for you."

Porthos gazed at him for a long moment, his eyes filled with sympathy. "I wish love had been kinder to you, D'Artagnan."

The knife paused almost imperceptibly on the pole before resuming again. "Thank you, Porthos. I appreciate the thought, but we both know it can never be. I must cope with it the best I can."

Porthos nodded. "Yes, I suppose. Do not say anything to Angelina, though. I have not presented the idea to her yet. I am not certain that she will be interested in leaving her home to come live with me at my estate, especially when I am unable yet to be her lover."

"That will come, Porthos. Be patient."

Porthos stood up. "I will leave you to finish your fishing poles. Have a nice time with Philippe."

"I am certain we will. He has wanted to do this for some time, but we had not found the time until now."

Porthos stood up from his seat on the wall, and swayed, dizzily. He reached out and placed his hand on the cool stone wall to keep from falling down. D'Artagnan grasped his arm to help steady him.

"Are you all right?" he asked, concerned.

Porthos's face was ashen, and he looked like he might become ill. "I do not feel so very well," he said. "I believe I will go lie down for a while."

"Go see Doctor Bonniere," D'Artagnan reminded him. "Without delay."

"Oh, yes," Porthos said, as if he had forgotten. "My head hurts so badly I cannot keep a thought for very long. I feel like I am in a daze! I will go now." Leaving his friend, Porthos walked rather unsteadily down the street and turned toward the residence of the village physician.

D'Artagnan watched with concern until he had disappeared around the corner, then resumed his work. With one pole finished, D'Artagnan set it aside and picked up the other one, trimming and smoothing it in the same manner than he had done the first one. He was attaching the string to the poles when Philippe finally stepped from the house, freed at last from his grueling dancing lesson.

Eagerness filled his eyes when he realized what his father was doing, and he jogged toward him.

D'Artagnan presented him with one of the poles. "I think it's time we went fishing. I have informed Angelina that she should be prepared to cook a great deal of fish for supper tonight, as you and I intend to feed the entire household."

"And what is left, she can take home to her family," Philippe suggested.

"That is a nice gesture," he agreed.

"What are we going to do for bait?" Philippe asked.

"I paid a couple of boys to dig up some worms and bugs for us," he replied, indicating the bucket that was placed against the wall at his feet. It contained a small amount of dirt, keeping the earthworms cool and moist. "Do you know of a good place? It should be calm and shady, for that is where big fish like to rest."

"Yes, my special place. It has calm water and lots of shade."

"Then your inlet it will be."

Together, father and son hiked down the slope toward the river.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

Seventeen

Philippe led him to the shady area in which he had been using to swim. D'Artagnan had been there once before, when he had resolved his differences with Athos, but due to the circumstances at hand he had paid little attention to it then. He observed it now with the interest of a fisherman seeking the best spot to cast his line.

A narrow artery had branched off from the river at some point in its history, terminating in the pond-sized body of water. In the wake of the rain showers, the river was moving faster than normal, and the fish would likely be seeking a sheltered place in calm water. There were plenty of trees lining the bank, many of them leaning over the water offering shade to the aquatic wildlife that inhabited the pond.

D'Artagnan nodded his approval. "Yes, this will do nicely."

They sat down on the bank, and baited their lines, then tossed them into the water and settled back to wait.

For several minutes, they sat silently watching the ripples on the clear water. Then, after a while, D'Artagnan said, "So, did you meet your lady friend here again last night?"

A slight blush colored Philippe's cheeks, but he was becoming less self-conscious about his interest in the young woman. "Yes, but her father found out that I was meeting her, and he was not pleased. He thought we were sneaking off together."

"Shall I speak with him?" D'Artagnan asked. "Father to father?"

Philippe was clearly pleased that D'Artagnan offered to speak with the man, but he shook his head. "I like her, but I'm not sure a relationship would work anyway, especially if I decide go to Paris." He fell silent again for several minutes, pondering something that was on his mind, as if trying to work up the courage to speak. Shifting position, so that he faced the Musketeer, Philippe said, hesitantly, "Father, I was wondering something . . . " His voice trailed, and he looked away, as if the words were difficult to speak.

It was obviously a serious subject to the boy, and when he failed to continue, D'Artagnan prompted, "Is something troubling you?"

Philippe turned to face him again, and asked bluntly, "If I become king, will I be forced to marry a woman I do not love, as my mother was forced to marry a man that she did not love?"

D'Artagnan's expression was sympathetic, and the expression alone told Philippe what he needed to know, but the man felt compelled to explain it to his son anyway. "Your mother was a child, Philippe. Her marriage was arranged by her father for political reasons, to unite the countries. That is common among royals, and is seen as a good thing to establish ties with allies. It is true that you must marry someone of royal blood; there is no way out of that. But with luck perhaps you can find a princess for whom you may at least have feelings of affection for, if not love."

Philippe nodded his understanding. "But there are no guarantees."

"No, I am afraid not. Your first duty will be to France, not your heart, and you must do what is best for the country."

"As you have done," he mused. "You stepped back from the woman you loved for the sake of the country."

"It was not an easy thing to do, but sometimes there is no other way," D'Artagnan said. "Do not consider it a noble sacrifice on my part. There was simply no alternative."

After another stretch of silence, Philippe said, "You have not asked me if I have made a decision yet."

D'Artagnan glanced at him quickly, surprised that he had brought up the subject, and wondering if he had, in fact, made his decision. "I told you I would not pressure you. I will honor that promise."

"Aramis asks every day if I have made my decision."

"You must tell him that when you make a decision, you will let him know. Do not let him pressure you."

"He is impatient to get me on the throne. Is my brother such a bad king?"

D'Artagnan sighed, heavily. In his love for Louis, it was difficult to see beyond the love and focus on the faults. "Louis is a bad king," he admitted, "but the blame does not lie entirely with him. He behaves the way he was taught to behave. The former king taught him to be hard and selfish, and that underlings are less important than the privileged. The common people are suffering great poverty under his reign, but to him they are insignificant."

Philippe felt a tug on his pole, and yanked it up, bringing with it a decent sized fish. He pulled the fish onto the grass, and held the struggling creature down while he removed the hook.

"I would say that is an excellent start," D'Artagnan praised.

Philippe looked up at him, beaming with joy. "Now that you and I have our dinner, we need a few more to feed the rest."

He baited his line again, and tossed it into the water.

After a moment, the conversation returned to Louis. "Why does he not seek the advice and assistance of others with such matters?" he asked.

"Because he is king, and his word is law," D'Artagnan answered, simply. "He has reminded me of this on occasion, when I have attempted to offer suggestions that would help him. He has knowledgeable advisors who have attempted over the years to guide him toward making the proper decisions, but he disregards anything that goes against his own opinions. I have seem moments of great encouragement, when I have believed that he would ultimately do the right thing, only to be disappointed when he rejects the advice of wiser men. You see, Philippe, he came into power at a young age, much too young to handle the pressures that were suddenly thrust upon him. Had he been more willing to accept the advice of older, more knowledgeable men, he might have become the king we had all hoped he would be, a king we would have been proud to serve."

Philippe nodded, apparently satisfied. "I have not made my decision yet," he said, answering the question he could see in his father's eyes, but which had remained unspoken.

Philippe's pole dipped toward the surface again. He braced himself and gripped the pole tighter to avoid having it pulled from his hands. "I think this one is huge!" he exclaimed as the fish fought the line. Finally, he struggled to his feet for leverage, and braced himself as the pole bent down until the tip was almost touching the water. Finally, with a mighty tug, he managed to hoist the fish out of the water.

It dangled from the end of the line, a fish that was a mere four inches long, inspiring amused laughter from both men.

"That would only give us about two bites," Philippe grinned. After a moment of deliberation, he removed it from the line and tossed it back into the water. "After the gallant struggle it made for such a small size, I believe it deserves a chance to grow up," he explained. He glanced at D'Artagnan's line. "You have not even had a nibble?"

D'Artagnan withdrew the line from the water to examine the hook, and found that his worm had vanished. "Ah, I think we have a smart fish in this river. It took my bait without taking the hook."

Retrieving another worm from the bucket, he baited his line again, and tossed it out.

Returning to the conversation, he said, "You must take as much time as you need to think though everything that comes with becoming king."

"If I decide to take Louis' place, I know I must live in the palace, and that you and Mother will be there with me. I will have many wonderful things, things I never even dreamed of having, things of such value that I cannot even begin to imagine. But those things are not really mine. They belong to my brother."

"They belong to the king, handed down from generation to generation. They do not belong specifically to Louis."

Philippe waved aside the discussion, for that opened up a new debate about his right to even claim the throne when he was not of the direct royal line. That matter had already been settled, and was not pursuant with the direction of his current thoughts. "What if I decline? Where will I live if I choose not to do it?"

D'Artagnan was silent for several moments. Even though he wanted the decision to be Philippe's, there had been little doubt in his mind that the boy would accept the position. He had given no thought whatsoever to the possibility that he might decline. "I do not know. I suppose that is up to you. Just remember; wherever you go, you will have to be careful that you are not noticed. Louis' face is well known, and your face is identical to his."

"I have been thinking a lot about that. Perhaps we could both stay here in this village," he suggested, eagerly. "I know you like it here, and so do I. They do not seem to notice or care that I look like the king. In fact, I suspect most of them do not even know what the king looks like. They are farmers, and are not likely familiar with the court."

D'Artagnan was startled by the suggestion, but as much as he would have loved to live out his remaining days in the peaceful village in the company of his son, he knew it would be difficult to give up his tasks as captain of the Musketeers. As long as Louis was on the throne, he would require constant vigilance to protect him, and he feared the other Musketeers, who had less to lose than he, might not be as attentive. To leave Louis might be to condemn him to eventual death. But how could he explain all this to a young man who had been isolated from the world his entire life?

Sensing his father's inner struggle, Philippe turned away quickly. "I'm sorry. I should not have suggested that. You have duties and responsibilities in Paris, and I had no right to try to take you away from that."

D'Artagnan placed his hand on his son's shoulder, bringing him to silence. "Do not think for a moment that I would not enjoy spending the rest of my life in this place with you. Nothing would give me more pleasure, for I have found a peace in this village that I have never known before, and a pride in my son that I had never expected to have. You have brought me more joy than I have ever thought possible. I love you dearly, Philippe. I never imagined that I could experience a love for a son as deeply fulfilling as my love for you, and I will always treasures this time we had together. But I hope you can understand that to abandon Louis would probably condemn him to death. As long as he sits on the throne, I must be there to protect him. And as for remaining in this village, that cannot be. We have been lucky so far, but eventually, someone would recognize the resemblance between you and the king; a traveler or a visiting relative of someone who lives here. Word would get back to Louis, and you would be in grave danger."

Philippe nodded his head, indicating that he did understand, but D'Artagnan could see the disappointment on his face.

This time, it was D'Artagnan's pole that dipped as a fish took the bait, but inwardly he cursed the interruption. He removed the large fish from the hook, and placed it with the one Philippe had caught, but this time he did not bait the hook and return it to the water, for a more important matter needed his full attention.

Laying the pole aside, he said, "Philippe, there have been a half dozen assassination attempts against your brother just in the past year, and there will likely be more. Eventually, one of those attempts will be successful, and I would always wonder if I could have prevented it had I been there."

Philippe turned quickly to look at D'Artagnan, suddenly experiencing a deep sense of concern for his father's safety, a troubling realization of just how far he would go to protect his son. "You would give your life to protect him?"

"Yes."

The ramification of his father's reply crashed down on him like a heavy weight that seemed to crush the air from his lungs, and his breathing accelerated to compensate for the sudden lack of oxygen. "How can you speak so casually of offering you life in exchange for someone else's?" he asked, incredulously. "I – I could lose you as quickly as I found you!"

D'Artagnan placed a comforting hand on his son's shoulder. "It is the duty of the Musketeers to protect the king with our lives if need be. There is not a man in the service who would not do the same. That is why the Musketeers are so highly regarded."

"But you have a much more profound reason to protect him than the others, is that not so?"

"That is so. He is my son, as are you. I love you both, and I do not wish harm to come to either of you. If you become king, I will protect you with my life as well."

"That would not be an easy thing to bear, should you lose your life in defense of me because of my brother's past mistakes. I don't want to lose you!"

"Philippe, there are no guarantees in life. You are troubling yourself over something that is not likely to occur. If you accept the position, as soon as you are comfortably settled in, we will begin making the changes that will improve the king's standing among the people. But there has always been a need for protection to the king, and there always will be."

"Then if I accept the position, over time your life will be less danger because the situation among the public will get better and there will be less dissension. Then I must do it," he said with conviction. "I could not bear it if something happened to you."

"That is not what you must base your decision on, Philippe."

Philippe did not seem to hear the directive. "Thank you for your honesty, Father. No one else has made mention of these things to me."

D'Artagnan's hand was still on his son's shoulder, and he squeezed it affectionately. "Philippe, you must think long and hard about all the things that involve your decision on whether or not to take your brother's place as king. You must not focus on those that involve me. There is too much at stake here, and I am insignificant in the overall scope of things."

Philippe was shaking his head. "Not to me. But I will do as you ask, and I will consider everything carefully that you have told me."

"That is all I can ask." He reached for his fishing pole and baited the line once again.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

The sun was sinking lower in the sky as D'Artagnan and Philippe returned to the village with their catch. When they reached the house, they proceeded around to the back where they placed the fish in a row on the low stone wall. With a sharp knife, D'Artagnan scaled and beheaded the fish, then carefully filleted the flesh from the bones while Philippe watched. Neither of them noticed the calico cat that was sitting nearby, watching with great interest.

"Not everyone does it this way," the Musketeer explained. "I have a dislike for picking bones out of my mouth while I'm eating, so I prefer to separate the flesh from the bones."

"Good idea," Philippe agreed. "Father Laroque never did that, and Yvette got choked on a bone once."

"To be sure, there is nothing dignified about choking on a fish bone," Athos said as he approached from behind. He was carrying a platter on which to put the cleaned fish. "I thought perhaps you gentlemen could use some help," he offered as his eyes wandered over the fish that had been placed on the wall, awaiting their turn under the knife. "Looks like you had a great success."

"Philippe caught most of it," D'Artagnan replied, to which the young man beamed with pleasure.

"Well done," Athos praised. He withdrew his knife from its sheath and began working on one of the fish. "We will be one short for supper, however. Porthos went to see Doctor Bonniere about his drinking problem, and the doctor decided to keep him there for a few days."

D'Artagnan looked up, startled. "His condition is that serious?"

"Apparently so. Bonniere dropped by a short time ago to talk to us about it. He wishes to oversee his progress." He fell silent for several moments, thinking about a troubling past experience, then added, "That may be a good thing. I had a cousin who died from trying to quit drinking."

Concern flashed across Philippe's face. "You mean Porthos could die from this?"

"For someone who has been drinking as long and as hard as Porthos has, it is very dangerous to suddenly deny the body the alcohol it craves. Aramis is very humbled by this revelation," Athos said. "He has scoffed at Porthos's determination to quit drinking, and he really feels bad about this. When Bonnier came by with the news, Aramis decided to return with him, to help in whatever way he could and to sit with him for a while. He says he will return for supper, though."

"I have truly been out of touch with my friends over the years," D'Artagnan said with regret. "I had no idea it had progressed this far."

"Well, you have been busy," Athos said, careful to keep his voice from sounding accusing. "Seeking Bonniere's help in conquering this addition was a wise thing for Porthos to do. I don't think he could do it on his own."

"How is Angelina taking the news?" D'Artagnan asked.

"She is worried, as we all are. The doctor would not allow her to visit him, which has upset her. Porthos said he has not slept in two nights, so Bonniere gave him something that he says will make him sleep. That will be for the best, since he seems to be in a great deal of discomfort."

"I spoke with him shortly before Philippe and I went fishing," D'Artagnan said. "He was shaking terribly, and complaining about having a headache."

"Yes, it has steadily grown worse over the past few days," Athos agreed. "I have never seen a man shaking as badly as he was."

"I am to blame for this," D'Artagnan mused. "It was I who suggested he stop drinking."

"Do not blame yourself," Athos said. "He needs to quit. It was only a matter of time before he either drank himself to death or succeeded in committing suicide because of his depression. This had to be, D'Artagnan."

As they were talking, the cat continued to watch with intense yellow eyes while the men worked on cleaning the fish, and seemed to be aware that they were distracted. She licked her whiskered, eagerly, as the scent of the fish permeated the air around her. Now was the time to act. Stealthily, she hopped up onto the wall, grabbed the nearest fish, and then leaped out of reach before Philippe could grab her.

"You little thief!" he shouted after her as she scampered down the hill toward the tree line with the fish in her mouth.

D'Artagnan and Athos laughed. "Smart cat," Athos said. "She knew when to make her move. If ever you want to learn stealth, Philippe, watch a cat. They are the experts."

Philippe was gazing over the stone wall toward the trees where the cat had disappeared. "Father Laroque said that cats are a window to Satan; that they are evil beings and should be destroyed."

"With all due respect to Father Laroque, that is utter nonsense and pure superstition," D'Artagnan said. "They are just animals, and they do a great deal of good, like killing rats and mice. They serve a needed purpose."

"She stole our dinner!" Philippe complained.

"We have plenty to share," D'Artagnan said, reminding them all that Porthos would not be joining them for supper.

When the fish was cleaned and filleted, they carried them into the kitchen, where Angelina and her sisters were waiting to cook them. Angelina's face was tense with worry, but her hands deftly prepared the fish for the fire, and placed each one in the skillet to cook over the flames.

Porthos's absence was palpable as they sat down at the table for supper, and Aramis, who had returned only a short time before, was unusually quiet, but he remembered their absent comrade in his prayer as he said grace. As soon as the meal was completed, he returned to Bonniere's house to offer what assistance he could to his good friend.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

A soft voice penetrated Porthos's fogged mind, bringing him slowly to awareness. He was so familiar with the voice that he recognized it as Aramis even before he reached full cognizance, and quickly realized that his friend was praying steadily and continually. That was not so unusual; Aramis was frequently found at prayers.

He was lying in a comfortable feather bed, and for a long time he was reluctant to open his eyes, enjoying the warmth and the relaxation he felt beneath the bedcovers. Apart from the drone of the priest's voice, he became aware of other small noises in the room as his consciousness continued to advance: the soft rustle of clothing, the turning of a page in a book, a quiet cough.

Aramis continued to pray, speaking too softly for the drowsy ex-Musketeer to make out the specific words, but he felt the worry and intensity in the persistence, and felt a stab of concern, wondering why the priest would be praying so fervently. Was someone ill? Had someone, God forbid, passed away?

Slowly, he opened his eyes and experienced a jolt when he saw that Aramis was seated beside his bed, dressed in his cassock. A Bible lay open on his lap, and he was fingering his Rosary Beads in his hand as he prayed.

Porthos opened his mouth to speak, but his tongue felt strangely thick and unresponsive. His throat was unbearably dry, and he realized in that moment that it was he who had been ill. He swallowed hard, trying to moisten his throat, but his voice was a peculiar croak as he asked, "Aramis?"

The priest looked up, and his eyes brightened with relief as they met those of the desperately sick man. "Porthos! How are you feeling, my friend?"

"Not very well. I heard you praying. Were you giving me Last Rites? Am I dying?"

"No! No! I am only here as friend."

"You look like you are here as priest!" Porthos retorted, his eyes dropping to the floor length cassock.

Aramis closed the Bible and laid it aside. With a smile, he said, "Well, I am here as friend and priest, but I have not given you Last Rites because it has not been necessary, praise God. I was only praying for your continued recovery."

He licked his cracked, dry lips with his puffy tongue. "Could I have some water?"

"Certainly."

Aramis immediately fetched a dipper of water from the bucket on the table, and held it beneath his lips. Porthos gulped it greedily, spilling a portion of it on his nightshirt. He reached for it to steady it, but Aramis pulled it away, ignoring that hand that followed it as if bidding it to stay. "N-no, please . . . "

"Bonniere said you would be thirsty, but you have been terribly sick, so he said you must only drink a little at a time," he explained. "Any more than that is likely to come right back up." He returned the dipper to the water bucket, and sat down on the edge of the bed. "The crisis is past, my dear friend. You still have a long way to go, but you are well on your way to recovery."

Porthos's eyes darted around the unfamiliar room, taking in the objects with the unease of a man who did not know where he was. "This is not my room at the house. Where am I?"

"You do not remember?"

"No, I . . ." His brow puckered in concentration. "I remember going to see Doctor Bonniere because I was feeling so bad, but I remember nothing after that."

"Nothing at all?"

Porthos's brow was furrowed in concentration. "Perhaps brief moments, but they are like a dream, and are just out of my grasp. I cannot distinguish what was real and what was not."

"Most of it was probably real," Aramis told him. "You are still at Doctor Bonniere's house. He wanted to keep you here for a few days to help you through this recovery. You have been here ever since."

'How long?"

"Three days."

"Three days?" Porthos exclaimed, alarmed. "I have been unconscious for three days?"

"Not entirely. You were with us from time to time, cursing us and fighting us. Doctor Bonniere has a black eye from one of your tirades, and you ripped the front of one of my best shirts. You do not remember?"

Porthos's frown deepened as he concentrated very hard. "No, I do not remember any of that. I struck the doctor?"

"Knocked him clear across the room! I dare say, you have been quite a handful! We had to tie you to the bedposts for a time, but then yesterday you became very lethargic, and then you fell asleep and have slept ever since. You had us very worried, but thankfully you are much better today." He crossed himself, quickly, and pressed his crucifix against his lips.

Porthos lowered his gaze to the nightshirt, dampened on the front by the water he had spilled. "Who -- Who --?"

Aramis cocked his head, inquisitively. "You sound like an owl. 'Who' what?"

"Who dressed me in this?" he asked, lifting the collar with his fingers. "It is much too clean and white to be mine."

"It belongs to Bonniere. He keeps several nightshirts for patients who have to remain with him during their recovery from their illnesses and injuries. And a good thing, too. You threw up all over the first one."

"I did? I do not remember. But who – Who undressed me?"

"Oh, yes. Well, you undressed yourself the first day and went to bed, but after you became sick I'm afraid it took the combined effort of Doctor Bonniere and myself to get you out of the soiled nightshirt and into this one."

Porthos blinked and looked away.

"What is wrong?" Aramis asked.

"I am embarrassed by my behavior. I remember now. I did not just throw up on myself . . . I threw up on you as well."

"Yes, well, love for our friends compels us to tolerate even the most unpleasant of tasks. I know you would have done the same, my friend, so ease your mind and think nothing more of it." He fell silent for several moments, a distinctly guilty expression on his handsome face. "I had no idea you were so sick, Porthos. I came as soon as I heard that he wanted you to stay here during your recovery."

"You are a good friend, Aramis," Porthos said, patting Aramis's arm clumsily.

"Not as good as I should have been," Aramis admitted. "Forgive me, Porthos. I haven been terribly insensitive to what you have been feeling lately."

"You have been busy preparing Philippe to take the throne," Porthos reminded him.

Aramis shrugged. "Well, yes, that is true, but you mustn't trivialize my boorish lack of understanding for what you were going through. My focus has simply been too narrow. I was abrupt and intolerant, and I failed to recognize that you were suffering. For that, I am truly sorry."

Porthos could see that his friend was, indeed, very sorry, and it warmed him to receive his concern. "How is Philippe doing?"

"I have not been to the house in a couple of days, but I would assume that Athos and D'Artagnan are continuing with the lessons."

"Has he announced his decision yet?"

"Not yet, and I must confess, I grow impatient. Time is running out. The ball is little more than a week away now, and there is much to do before then."

"What will happen if he declines?"

Aramis glanced at him, sharply. "Do not even consider such a thing! He _must_ accept! It is the only way."

"He may not agree. May I have another drink? My mouth feels like one hundred year old parchment!"

Aramis fetched the dipper again, and carefully positioned it under Porthos's mouth. "Slowly," he suggested.

Porthos carefully sipped the water from the dipper, swishing it around his dry mouth to allow its wetness to moisten his tongue before swallowing it and taking another sip.

Finally Aramis withdrew it again before Porthos was satisfied, and returned it to the bucket. "I've probably allowed you to have more than I should," he said.

"It still wasn't enough. I never thought plain water could taste so good."

"That is because you are badly dehydrated," Doctor Bonnier said from the doorway. "You need fluids, but we must get them into you slowly."

Both men looked toward him, surprised, for neither of them had heard the door open.

"It is good to see you are feeling better!" he said as he approached the bed. "You have had a very rough time the past few days."

Porthos watched him, noticing the discolored skin over the cheekbone beneath his left eye. "It appears you have had a rough time, also. I owe you an apology."

Bonniere's fingers went briefly to the darkened skin, and smiled. "A minor injury," he assured him. "It was not the first time I have been knocked down by a patient's flailing fists, and I doubt that it will be the last. I do believe you were the strongest, though, by far!"

"Well, I do apologize," Porthos insisted. "I must have been out of my head. I do not remember the incident."

"It has been a difficult few days for you, but you are through the worst of it now. As long as you stay away from the alcohol, I predict a successful recovery for you."

"When can I rejoin my friends back at the house?" Porthos inquired.

"Once you are able to eat solid food and keep it down, I will consider allowing you to go home. But first, you get only liquids. Are you hungry yet?"

"Yes, I believe I could do with a bite to eat."

"Very good. I will have my wife prepare some broth for you. We will see how you manage that. Tomorrow morning, we will try soft foods, like eggs." He turned to the priest. "Father Aramis, your dedication is inspirational, but I feel it is time that you should go home and rest. I need to examine my patient, and you need some sleep. You can come back later."

"Yes, I will do that. Thank you, Doctor. You saved my friend's life, and that is something I do not take lightly."

"I was just doing what I was trained to do, Father."

"I will see you soon, Porthos," he promised. Then he slipped through the door.

"You have a good friend in that man," Bonniere said after he had gone. "He hasn't left your side in two days, when you were going through the worst part of it. He has fasted and prayed and refused to sleep."

"Yes," Porthos agreed, his eyes resting on the door that Aramis had just passed through. "He has always been a good friend."

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Aramis had not realized just how weary he was until he walked down the street toward the house he shared with his friends. Now, with the burden of worry eased, the weight of the entire experience came crashing down on him, and he found that he could barely place one foot in front of the other.

When he neared the house, he saw Athos standing at the stone wall near the place where the barn had once been. The former Count had folded his arms across his chest as he watched something in the field beyond. In spite of his weariness, he detoured to his friend's side to see what held his attention.

As he stopped beside him and gazed into the field at the bottom of the slope, he saw D'Artagnan standing there, watching while Philippe cantered a circle around him on the black gelding. After making several circles, the young man adjusted his reins and, without altering stride, began a figure eight. The gelding conducted flying lead changes and maintained a consistent gait. Philippe looked comfortable in the saddle.

"He is coming along nicely," Aramis said, pleased by his progress. "Already, he rides as well as Louis."

"He learns quickly," Athos agreed.

"I do not suppose . . . " he began.

"He has not yet announced his decision," Athos told him.

Aramis sighed, visibly disappointed. "Well, I suppose we will just have to wait, won't we? I do hope you have been keeping up the other lessons in my absence," he added.

Athos's brow furrowed. "Of course we have been keeping up the other lessons," he said, a bit more sharply than he intended. "Do you think you are the only one capable of keeping things going smoothly?"

Aramis gave a slight wave of his hand as if to dismiss the subject. "Forgive me. Of course I should have realized that you and D'Artagnan would keep things going. It has been a trying week."

"How is Porthos doing?" Athos asked.

"He is much improved this morning. He's awake now, and Bonniere is going to see if he is able to consume some broth. As soon as he can handle solid food, he should be able to come home."

"That is good to hear. We've been worried."

"How have the other lessons been going?"

"Well, we have discontinued the penmanship. He can now duplicate his brother's handwriting perfectly. And he has been working on his posture on his own."

Interest flashed in Aramis's eyes, interpreting this as a good sign. "He has? I believe he hates working on posture worse than any other lesson."

"I saw him walking around in the library yesterday with a book on his head," Athos continued. "He is very determined to master the task. The fencing lessons are also coming along very well, and as you can see, he is beginning to excel at the riding lessons."

"What about the dancing lessons?"

"We work on that every day, and will continue to do so until we reach the palace."

"Excellent. Thank you, Athos, for taking charge."

"No one has taken charge, Aramis. We just all know what needs to be done, and we do it."

Dutifully shamed, Aramis nodded. "Very well. I must retire for a few hours."

"You look dead on your feet," Athos agreed.

Aramis turned and walked back to the house, where he was met at the door by Angelina

He patiently answered her questions before going to the cupboard where the wine was kept. Opening the cupboard doors widely, he removed the jugs and handed them to her. "Remove these from the house. Store them somewhere; I do not care where, just someplace that they will not tempt Porthos when he comes back. After everything he has been through the past few days, it would be unfair to have these inside the house."

"He – he will be coming back soon?" Angelina asked, her voice hopeful.

"Yes. He is much improved this afternoon. Doctor Bonniere believes he will be able to return home in a few more days."

"Have you had anything to eat, Father Aramis?" she asked, eagerly, her spirits greatly lifted by the news. "It will only take a moment for me to prepare something for you."

"I appreciate the offer, but I fear I would fall asleep with my face in my plate. I wish to retire to my room for a while, and then when I awaken I will let you prepare something for me."

She curtseyed. "Just let me know when you are ready, Father."

Aramis did not answer. Wearily, he walked out of the kitchen, and a moment later she heard his boots going up the stairs.

Without bothering to undress, the exhausted priest stretched out on his bed and within minutes was sound asleep.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

Eighteen

Porthos returned to the house two days later, still weak and a bit shaky from his ordeal, but his eyes were beginning to clear and his mood was significantly improved. Angelina fed his ego by generously praising him for his resolve, and he lapped it up eagerly, basking in the attention that she lavished upon him throughout the day.

Weary of spending so much time in bed, he rejected Aramis's urgings that he go immediately to his room to rest, preferring to spend most of his time in the library or in the drawing room, watching with renewed interest while Philippe's lessons resumed. He found great amusement in watching the dancing lesson, and roared with laughter when Philippe and Athos tripped over one another's feet while attempting to pirouette.

The day passed quickly, and soon evening arrived, bringing with it the ritualistic settling down of the residents, of putting away tools, and congregating with family and friends.

Darkness settled over the landscape, and the aroma of food being prepared and consumed in various households drifted over the fortified town. The friends who occupied the centralized house on the main thoroughfare barely noticed the enticing aromas, having only just risen from Angelina's most recent culinary masterpiece, a special "coming home" meal consisting of Porthos's favorite foods. The men were now relaxing in various parts of the large house, each drawn to his own tasks of pleasure or necessity. Angelina had been reluctant to leave Porthos's side, but had finally returned to her own home with her two sisters at his urging, insisting that she must take care of herself, and that he would be fine until she returned the next morning.

In the drawing room, Aramis was seated at the desk beside the open window, his quill scratching rapidly against a sheet of parchment as he put his thoughts down on his document or letter, presumably orders of some kind to his Jesuit rebels. He paused briefly to collect his thoughts, then dipped the quill in the ink again and the scratching sound began again.

The priest was becoming almost frantic in the nearness of the ball, and his desire to get Philippe on the throne. There was so much to be done in preparation of the young man's announcement: costumes must be readied, and arrangements for the deposed king must be made. Evidence of his frustration could be heard in the rapid, almost frantic, scratching of the quill.

Behind him, D'Artagnan was seated at the table in the center of the room, carefully cleaning his musket pistol, but he was not demonstrating the task to Philippe, for this was not something that he needed to know. If he decided to accept the position of king, he would always have someone to care for his weapons for him. And if he declined, he could be taught later how to care for his arms.

This was a routine task that had been drilled into the Musketeer captain by his late father. _A weapon is only as good as the maintenance to keep it in good working order, _the older man had often said while training his son for the service. _A well-cared for weapon can save your life, but a neglected one can take it_. So, following his father's advice, he maintained his muskets and his sword on a regular basis.

As his hands worked the mechanisms as much by touch as by sight, D'Artagnan allowed his mind to drift to his own son and the conversation they had shared at the river nearly a week prior. In many ways, he now found that he was conflicted on whether or not he wanted the boy to assume his brother's place on the throne, but until the boy had asked about it, he had never actually considered what might happen on a personal level if Philippe declined.

On one hand, if the boy became king, they would be together at the palace, and he could see him every day. His son would live a privileged life, far more elaborate than anything he could ever imagine. But, at least in public, their relationship would be that of servant to king, not as father to son.

If Philippe declined, however, things would be different, and he wondered where the boy would live. He could not live in Paris, unless he remained hidden, for his likeness to the king would be immediately noticed. That would be a decidedly unfulfilling life, akin to the isolation he had known while at the prison.

One option for them would be to resign his commission and take the boy to his ancestral home in Gascony, where he could spend the rest of his life with his son, a thought which was initially appealing. But there were drawbacks to that as well. The distance between him and Anne would be great, and the very thought of never seeing her again was enough to send his heart plummeting to his feet. And Philippe would be isolated from his mother; she would never get to know her younger son. There was also Louis to consider and the danger to his life if D'Artagnan was not there to protect him. It seemed there was no easy solution.

As he wiped off the weapon with a soft cloth, the Musketeer glanced at his son, noting that the young man seemed deep in thought.

Philippe stood quietly by the open window as he gazed out into the night sky. There was a pucker to his youthful brow which indicated that he was seriously considering something important or that he was worried about something that he was not sharing with them.

The sound of approaching footsteps interrupted D'Artagnan's thoughts, and he looked toward the door as Athos and Porthos entered. They paused briefly to look at the three men who were present, then pulled out chairs and sat down.

"I thought for a moment that I had walked into a cathedral," Porthos said. "It is quiet in here!"

Aramis glanced over his shoulder at them. "Did it never occur to you that we might be busy?"

Porthos glanced at the parchment on the desk, then at the musket pistol in D'Artagnan's hands, and shrugged. "Well, you and D'Artagnan are busy, but Philippe is not. He is just standing at the window. Looking troubled, I might add."

Athos had noticed this as well. "Is something bothering you, Philippe?"

Prompted by the question, Philippe turned to face them, his expression serious. "I have been thinking very carefully about your proposal and everything it carries, and I am ready to make a decision."

This statement alone was enough to attract the rapt attention of the other four men, and they all turned to face him, expectantly. Aramis looked particularly worried about the solemn expression on the boy's face.

"Well?" he prompted. "What have you decided?"

"Before I give you my answer, I must know something first. You have never told me what will become of my brother if I accept your offer to become king."

Aramis fumbled uncomfortably with his quill for several moments, then laid it down on the parchment and swung around in his chair to look at D'Artagnan, apparently deferring to him to inform his son of Louis' fate.

D'Artagnan laid the unloaded pistol down on the tabletop, considering how he would reveal this to him. He had suspected that eventually this question would come up, but knowing it did not make him any more prepared to answer. "Aramis and I have discussed this at length. It is not something I want to do, but for a while, at least, until other arrangements can be made, Louis will be imprisoned."

Philippe looked at him for a long, tense moment, detecting something unspoken in the words he had chosen. There was regret in D'Artagnan's expression, and the young man was quick to pick up on that. "There is more that you are not telling me. You are planning to put him in the mask, aren't you? To do to him what was done to me."

The priest and the Musketeer exchanged glances, both of them impressed by Philippe's perception. They then turned back to Philippe, but again Aramis remained silent, allowing the father to answer the questions of the son.

"For a time, at least, it will be necessary," D'Artagnan said. "Unfortunately, it cannot be avoided."

"Why?" the boy demanded.

"We cannot simply place him in prison without covering his face, for he would surely be recognized," Athos explained. "That would lead to questions that we cannot answer without exposing you."

Philippe's expression remained harshly disapproving. Folding his arms across his chest, he scowled at them, clearly displeased with the answers he had received, but uncertain how they could be favorably resolved. "I don't like it," he said, quietly. "Surely, there must be something else we could do, someplace where he could be hidden."

"Out of a controlled environment, there is a risk of escape," D'Artagnan said. "I don't like this either, Philippe, but there is no other way."

"I am bewildered by this attitude of yours," Aramis said, shaking his head slowly in disbelief that the younger of the twins would care what happened to his brother. "You suffered for years at Louis' hands. I would have thought you would be aching for revenge against the person who did that to you."

"My need for revenge is not that great. You have no idea what it is you're planning to do to him!" He shook his head in refusal. "No, I will not permit it! I would not do that to my worst enemy, let alone my own brother!"

"Your brother _is_ your worst enemy, Philippe," Aramis pointed out, forcefully. "It is he who ordered me to place you in that mask and who ordered you imprisoned all those years. Your misery would never have happened except by his decree, and I will wager he did not lose a moment of sleep over it. He would do it again without hesitation should he discover that you are still alive and free. And that is only if he doesn't decide to kill you this time!"

"I am not Louis!" he protested, vehemently. "I cannot do these things to others. Not even to him."

Aramis shook his head in frustration, but forced himself to calm down in an attempt to reason with the boy. "I understand that you are kind-hearted, Philippe, and it is good that you wish to be kind to others. But sometimes, punishments must be given, and what more appropriate punishment than this? Why would you not wish for him to experience the things he did to you?"

Philippe's blue eyes flashed angrily. "You have no idea what it is like to live in that mask. I lived in it for six years, the longest six years of my life. There were days I wished I would die just so I could escape it!"

"I am certain it was difficult for you, Philippe," Aramis said, "But you must try to understand –"

"No! _You_ are the one who must understand!" Philippe retorted, raising his voice in frustration. "Let me tell you what it is like to wear that mask. I had frequent headaches from its weight, headaches so severe that they made me physically ill. Eating inside the mask is difficult; sleeping in it is nearly impossible, especially the first few weeks, until you become so exhausted from lack of it that you finally achieve it. In summer, the heat builds up inside the mask to an unbearable level, and the sweat trickles along your scalp with an unbearable itch." He lifted his hand to his head as if to scratch a phantom itch. "But when your head is inside a mask, you cannot relieve that itch. It nearly drives you mad before it finally goes away."

D'Artagnan looked away, greatly disturbed by the vivid account his son was providing them of his tormented years inside the mask.

Philippe noticed his father's struggles, and he shifted his attention to him, to appeal directly to the one person who might understand his reluctance to condemn Louis to such a terrible fate. "Father, you were hurt by the thought of me being in that mask, but this is the misery that you are planning to do to him, your other son, a son you have loved for years."

D'Artagnan sat quietly for several moments, his eyes resting on his musket without really seeing it, feeling the young man's imploring eyes on him. His mind and his heart were in turmoil, wishing there was another way to control the older son besides condemning him to the same fate that the younger had endured for so long.

Finally, he stood up and moved to his son. Placing his hands on each of the boy's shoulders, he looked directly into his eyes, eyes that were so much like his own. "Philippe, your description of your life inside the mask is thought provoking and as your father it is very painful for me to hear, but I do not intend that Louis will spend his entire life in the mask. It is only for a while, so that he can understand the horrors to which he condemns others. By contrast, he intended for you to wear it until you died in it."

Philippe looked away, irritated, but understanding that his father's words were the truth.

D'Artagnan continued, "And you are right: I do love Louis, and have since the day he was born. I did not agree to this proposal because I wish to cause him grief or that I have ceased to love him. I could never stop loving either of my sons, but this lesson that he must learn is an important one, one that he will remember for the rest of his life."

"Why? Why is it so important that he suffer as I did? Please explain this to me, because I cannot understand."

"Louis has never known punishment of any kind, yet he hands out the harshest punishments to others without blinking an eye. All his life, he has been given everything he ever wanted, with no consequences for his actions. As harsh as it seems to you, Philippe, he will benefit by it. He has no concept of the things he does to other people, of the pain he puts them through. He hands out these harsh punishments, and then puts them completely out of his mind. He has no conscience."

"But to put him in the mask –"

"All his life, I have been kept at arm's length from him, unable to teach him right from wrong. The only lessons I can give him now is to show him the cruelty that he has done to others by allowing him to experience it for himself, for it is the only way he will understand it."

Aramis spoke up again. "Only a few weeks ago, he ordered the execution of one of his advisors, the harshest punishment that can be given to anyone. Do you know what the man's offense was? Distributing rotten food to the public. But it was by Louis' decree that he did this."

"By Louis' decree?" Philippe asked, startled. "He knew?"

"Yes," D'Artagnan told him. "Louis gave the order to distribute the rotten food, knowing full well that it was rotten. That is what led to the rioting in Paris. The blame was placed fully on the shoulders of the advisor. Louis never assumes responsibility for his own decisions. He has never known accountability."

"And if the rioting starts up again," Aramis added, "Louis has ordered them to be shot without mercy."

Philippe fell silent for several moments, thinking about that. "Did the advisor have a family?" he asked.

"Yes," D'Artagnan replied. "His wife is now a widow, and his children are fatherless. They have been ostracized in the community, because Louis insisted that he accept the blame for the rotten food. Never doubt that I love Louis. He is my son, and it grieves me to see this done to him, but I know that he must understand that there are consequences to certain conduct. Eventually, we will make other arrangements for him, where he can live without it, at least in his private quarters."

"What other arrangements?"

"We have been discussing the possibility of moving him to a house the country. He will be under constant guard, of course." He shrugged. "We have not yet worked out the details, for it means we must modify the house so that he cannot escape, and also that someone else will have to be made aware of his identity. Perhaps some of Aramis's Jesuit friends, people we can trust to maintain their silence, who cannot be bought with promises of greater wealth."

"And he will be allowed to live without the mask at this point?" Philippe asked.

"Most of the time, yes," Aramis replied.

"You are saying that there will be times when he must wear it?"

"While in the company of others, yes, he must wear it," the priest replied. "No one must ever see his face, Philippe. The danger to you is too great."

Philippe was clearly displeased. He turned his back abruptly on them, his frustration apparent in the way he dragged his hands through his hair, as if trying to discover an alternative way to deal with Louis. "You have no idea what it is like to be locked inside that thing, powerless to remove it," he said as he turned to face them again. "The helplessness; the hopelessness . . . It is indescribable."

Up until this point, Porthos had been listening to the conversation without joining it, absorbing everything that was being said without offering comment. He spoke up now with a suggestion that none had considered. "What if we had another mask made out of softer material? Perhaps cloth or leather; something that will be lighter and more comfortable."

Aramis and D'Artagnan looked at him in surprise, then at each other.

"That is an excellent idea, Porthos," Aramis said. "The only drawback is that it cannot be permanently affixed to his head. He will be able to remove it if he desires, and that can lead to bigger problems."

"No, this might work," D'Artagnan said. "It can be offered as a reward for his behavior. The softer mask in exchange for his willingness to wear it while in the presence of others."

"But can he be trusted to comply?" Athos asked. "Louis is not known for being trustworthy."

"He will always have the possibility of being returned to the iron mask and the Bastille as a motivator for his behavior," D'Artagnan said. "Once he is moved to his permanent residence, he will have his own apartments, rooms which are his alone and where he can leave the mask off. When he is outside those apartments or when the maid comes in to clean, he must put it back on. He will have a certain amount of freedom and mobility, as long as he conforms to the rules."

"I'm still not certain that he can be trusted," Athos said. "What if we assign a jailer to him? Someone to keep an eye on him?"

"It will have to be someone who can be trusted, for he will be the only person besides us who will know his true identity," Aramis said.

Athos nodded. "He can enter Louis' apartments first, and make certain that the cloth mask is in place before he allows the maids inside to clean, and then stand guard over him while they work to make certain he does not remove it in their presence."

D'Artagnan nodded. "That sounds reasonable, if we can find such a person." He turned to Philippe. "Will that be acceptable to you?"

Philippe nodded. "Yes. My conscience can live with that. It still bothers me that he must wear the mask until the house is renovated, but I suppose I can live with that as well, knowing that it is not permanent. But while he is imprisoned, I want him treated with respect. And I want him well-fed."

"That will not be a problem. Political prisoners are often treated with special regard." D'Artagnan turned to Porthos, and slapped his old friend heartily on the back. "Thank you, Porthos. You have solved a very big problem."

Athos also reached out to pat his shoulder, approvingly.

Aramis was smiling. "Good job, my friend."

Porthos smiled, basking in the praise and camaraderie.

"I will see about locating guards who are completely trustworthy," Aramis said. "I already have several in mind who might be willing to act as jailer. One of them had his tongue cut out on Louis' orders. I believe we can take him into our confidence completely."

An involuntary shudder rippled through Philippe's body. "His tongue was cut out?"

"As we have told you, Louis' punishments are far worse than the crimes committed. He was overheard speaking of his discontent with the king's policies, so he was silenced with the removal of his tongue. Needless to say, he is most eager to see the current king overthrown." His gaze fixed on Philippe, seeking the answer to the most important question. "From your questions, are we to deduce that your decision is yes?"

Philippe nodded. "Yes. The things you have been telling me, of the bad things my brother has done; I want to correct them. And the first thing I want to do is to provide compensation for the widow of that executed advisor. If she has children, she must be in need of assistance."

"Yes, I am certain that she is," D'Artagnan said. "But she may not accept it from you, since it was Louis who ordered her husband killed."

"Then we must persuade her. And I must countermand that order to shoot rioters. They must be negotiated with, not murdered."

Aramis stood up from his desk and embraced Philippe. "You have made me very happy, Philippe. You will make a fine king."

When Aramis released him from his embrace, D'Artagnan was waiting to embrace him. "I am very proud of you, son."

"Thank you, Father."

Athos and Porthos each took their turn as well, offering their praise for his decision.

As Aramis took his seat at the desk again, he said, "D'Artagnan, you and I must travel to Paris to inform the queen mother of what we are planning. Since we cannot visit with her in her chamber, can you think of any time when we might be able to speak to her alone? I know that she is a recluse, but there must be someplace on the palace grounds that she goes. The garden, perhaps? She cannot remain inside her apartments all the time."

"She goes to the chapel every evening, but her nun attendant is always with her. I do not know if the nun would be a danger to us or not. The only time I can think of that she goes to the chapel alone is when she goes to confession. That is always on the twentieth of every month."

Aramis cocked his head slightly, smiling. "You know all this for fact?"

Heat crept into D'Artagnan's cheeks, coloring them slightly. "My window overlooks the walkway she uses to go to the chapel. I see her sometimes."

"Sometimes?" the priest teased.

The color in his cheeks deepened. "Very well. If you must know, I watch for her every day." He glanced at the others in the room, and found that they were grinning at him.

"I do not believe I have ever seen you blush, D'Artagnan!" Porthos exclaimed, delightedly.

"Enjoy it while you can, because I never intend for you to see it again," he replied, smiling. As his mood sobered, the smile faded. "I rarely get to see her at all. Watching from the window, just for a glimpse of her now and then, is the highlight of my day."

"Love can be a painful enterprise," Aramis said. "Which is a good reason to become a priest!" he added with conviction. "So, she takes confession on the twentieth of every month?" He consulted his calendar, and his eyebrows went up. "Today is the eighteenth!"

D'Artagnan was surprised. "It is? Time has gotten away from me."

"From me also. She will have confession in two days, and we must be there. I know her priest. He is the one who brought Philippe to me the night he was born. I shall speak to him about turning her confession over to me this one time. We will work out the details when we get there. We leave in the morning!" He began gathering up his papers and his quill in preparation for the trip.

Likewise, D'Artagnan retrieved his weapons and accessories from the table top.

"I wish I could go with you," Philippe said. "I would love to see my mother."

"You will see her soon," D'Artagnan said. "But in the meantime, you must stay here and continue your lessons. You must work as hard as you can, for time is short."

"I will, Father," the boy promised.

Aramis turned to the former Count. "Athos, I know he is in safe hands until we return."

"I will keep the lessons going," Athos replied. "I will also construct a model of the palace floor plan, so that he can acquaint himself with the layout of the rooms and passages."

"Excellent idea. And perhaps Porthos can oversee the riding lessons until we return," D'Artagnan suggested. "If he feels up to it, that is."

Porthos's eyes brightened at the thought of having something constructive to do. "I would be happy to, D'Artagnan."

"He is coming along so nicely that there is little to do except stand there and watch him, but you may need to offer pointers or remind him to sit up straight."

Philippe blushed. "I'm getting better with my posture," he said in his own defense.

"Yes, you are," his father agreed. "But you still need to work on it, and you only have less than a week to master it."

Aramis slapped D'Artagnan's arm. "We must pack for the trip. And I must inform my driver to have my coach ready at dawn."

The two men immediately went upstairs to begin packing, then retired early in anticipation of a long and tiring trip.


	19. Chapter Nineteen

Nineteen

Shortly before dawn the next morning, Aramis and D'Artagnan collected the gear they intended to take with them, and stepped into the street in front of the house, where the coach waited that would carry take them back to Paris. Athos, Porthos, and Philippe followed them outside.

As Aramis stored their satchels on the rear of the coach, D'Artagnan turned to face his son, anticipating their first parting since they had met weeks earlier. Neither of them had realized just how difficult this first separation would be.

Philippe flung his arms around his father and embraced him. "It is well that I have chosen to live with you in the palace, for I do not think I could bear being away from you any longer than the few days that will separate us now."

"I am glad you made that choice as well, son, for the same reason," D'Artagnan replied, holding him close against him. "I have grown accustomed to having you near me."

"When you see Mother, tell her I am anxious to meet her."

"I will. She will be beside herself with joy that you are safe." The father and son parted, and D'Artagnan allowed his hand to rest a moment longer on his son's cheek. "I will see you in a few days."

"Have a safe trip," Athos said. "And don't worry about your son. I will keep him in line."

D'Artagnan smiled. "But who will keep you in line?" He gave his old friend a smile and an affectionate pat on the arm, then boarded the coach.

Aramis climbed in behind him and took the seat across from him. Athos pushed the door shut and latched it securely. The driver flicked the reins over the rumps of the four seal-brown carriage horses, and the coach lurched into motion.

The horses trotted briskly down the street and out of town, frisky in the cool early morning air. Once out of town, the driver turned them toward Paris.

When they were well on their way, Aramis rested his head against the carriage wall and dozed, lulled by the rocking motion of the vehicle, but D'Artagnan was too nervous and excited to sleep. Tomorrow, he would see Anne again, and would tell her not only that Philippe had survived his ordeal in the prison, but that Louis would be temporarily condemned to the same fate. How she would react to that was anyone's guess, for she loved Louis, as D'Artagnan himself did, but he knew that a mother's love was a special bond.

Hours later, they stopped for lunch at a country home a short distance off the main road, and the coachman changed the horses while the two men ate their meal. Then, within a half hour, they were back on the road again.

Another stop was made for supper, again traveling a short distance off the main road to reach another house, and once again the horses were changed to a fresh team. D'Artagnan found it interesting that they were detouring to private homes to procure fresh horses rather than stopping at known stables in townships along the way, but he made no comment, observing that the occupants were quite friendly with the priest. It was obvious that they were well acquainted.

When they were back on the road again, as darkness was beginning to settle over the land, the Musketeer eyed his friend curiously across the dusky atmosphere inside the vehicle. "More Jesuits?" he asked.

"Yes. There is a network of them all over France, and gaining strength all the time."

D'Artagnan's body gave an involuntary shudder, thinking of what could have happened to Louis had the three former Musketeers not learned of his paternity. "I suppose I underestimated the resolve of your army."

Aramis seemed to understand what he was thinking. "Do not dwell on it, my friend. The plan we have will be carried out without bloodshed, now that you are here to help us."

"Unfortunately, my involvement means I must hurt Anne in order to save Louis," he said, quietly. "Placing her son in the mask and confining him in the Bastille." He shook his head with regret. "You have no idea how difficult it is to tell her of our plans."

"That task would have fallen to me, had your secret not been discovered," Aramis reminded him. "So I do know something of what you're feeling right now. Not to the same degree, perhaps, knowing that it is your own son that you must do this to, but I felt the same dread, the same worry about what her reaction might be. She must be consoled with the knowledge that it is only temporary and that it is in his best interest as well."

"Yes. That is my consolation as well." Falling silent again, D'Artagnan shifted his gaze through the window to the moonlit landscape as the carriage continued its journey toward Paris.

Slowed by the stops for meals and to change the horses, it was nearly midnight when the priest and the Musketeer entered the city. The driver took them through the cobblestone streets, finally arriving at the steps to the monastery in which Aramis resided.

The two tired travelers climbed the steps, and Aramis took D'Artagnan to a bed chamber and bid him goodnight. Tomorrow would be an important day.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

The next day, an hour before Anne's regularly scheduled confession, D'Artagnan and Aramis were taken by carriage to the edge of the king's property, and, concealed inside the vehicle, they gazed out the window at the grounds and buildings. Due to its enormous size, it was impossible to adequately guard the outer perimeters of the property, so they would face little risk of detection until they reached the inner perimeter.

"This is the best place?" Aramis asked.

"Yes," D'Artagnan replied. "We will cut through the orchards to the caretaker's cottage. From there, we will simply follow the path that will take us to the chapel."

Aramis opened the carriage door and the two men stepped onto the road. To the driver, he said, "We may be some time and it might attract unwanted attention if you were to be seen waiting for us, so it might be better if you proceed."

"There is a meadow nearby," D'Artagnan added. "Wait there for an hour. If anyone questions why you are stopped there, tell them you are merely resting the horses. After the hour is up, begin passing this spot every ten minutes. If we get back after you've passed, we will wait in the trees until you return."

"Very good, sir," the driver replied. Flicking the reins over the horses' rumps, he drove the carriage farther down the road.

On foot, D'Artagnan and Aramis made their way through the grove of fruit-bearing trees toward the caretaker's small cottage, which was nestled unobtrusively behind a concealing hedge where it would not interfere with the view of the grounds from the palace. Skirting behind the cottage, they proceeded to the large shed where a large supply of wood was always kept to provide fuel for the palace hearths and cook fires. From there, they proceeded cautiously to the chapel, and reached it without incident.

They stopped beside the long wall of the chapel that protected them from view of the palace.

"All right, we made it," Aramis said, looking cautiously over his shoulder. "It is best that I speak to Father Belles alone. Wait for me inside, where you are at less risk of detection."

D'Artagnan watched as the priest made his way toward the modest residence of Anne's priest, then moved to the edge of the building and looked around the corner toward the palace. The palace yard was relatively quiet. A lone gardener was pruning the hedges, his back to the Musketeer. He lifted his eyes to the magnificent structure that was the palace. His own bedroom window was dark, as were most of the others, but in one of the corner rooms, a maid was scrubbing the glass with a cloth.

Turning his back to the palace, D'Artagnan's eyes strayed to the outer gardens, specifically the magnificent rose garden that boasted all the latest varieties. On impulse, he made his way through the rose garden, careful to avoid discovery. He was out of uniform, and from a distance might be regarded as an intruder. If apprehended, he would have a difficult time explaining his presence on the grounds.

After a short time, he found what he was looking for; a perfectly shaped long stemmed red rose. Withdrawing his knife, he quickly cut the rose from the bush, and then made his way to the chapel, where he would meet Aramis.

Upon entering the building, he placed the rose on the kneeling bench before the alter, then paced quietly on the polished floor, waiting for Aramis to return from his meeting with Anne's priest. As he paced, he could not help but remember that it was here, only a few weeks prior, that he and Anne had shared a kiss, their first since the day they had decided by mutual consent to back away from their relationship. It had been a painful decision, and their parting kiss that long ago day had been fraught with tears and distress, but it was a decision that they both believed was the correct one at the time.

Throughout the years, he had occasionally left a rose for her in that very spot on her kneeling bench, a token of his esteem for her, and a reminder of the bond they would always share. Now, more than ever, it was a symbol of their lasting love for one another.

Repeatedly, he moved to the door to look outside, making certain that no one was approaching. Finally, he saw Aramis hurrying down the lane toward him, keeping a cautious eye on his surroundings. He opened the door wider, and the priest stepped inside and pushed it closed again.

"He has agreed," Aramis said. "It seems I am not the only one seeking redemption from the sins committed when Philippe and Louis were born. He has been tormented by the lie that was told to the queen that night, as I have been."

"How much does he know?"

"He does not know about you," Aramis assured him. "But he is aware that there were twins, for it was he who placed Philippe in my arms the night he was born, and who told the queen the lie that her second son had died shortly after his birth. I told him that we have rescued Philippe from a horrible existence. I told him I only wish to speak to the queen in private, to inform her that her child still lives. He knows nothing else."

"That is good. The more people who know, the more dangerous it is for everyone concerned."

Aramis was looking at him strangely. "Speaking of redemption, D'Artagnan, I hope you have confessed to your sin, the one that involves you in this situation."

"I confessed to the adultery," he replied. "And served my penance."

Aramis nodded, pleased. "Good. I'm glad that you have cleansed your soul of that mistake."

D'Artagnan opened the door a crack to glance through it, then eased it closed again. His heart was pounding rapidly with nervous anticipation, and he found it difficult to stand still.

"You look anxious, my friend," Aramis observed.

"That is because I am," he admitted. "Going into battle is less difficult than this will be. It will not be easy to take away the joy she will feel about Philippe by informing her of what we plan for Louis."

"You know there is no other alternative. We must make certain that the queen mother understands that as well. And in a way, this is a battle. It will be up to us to make certain that it is a bloodless fight. Her cooperation is imperative."

"I know," D'Artagnan agreed. "But knowing that does not relieve my burden." He eased the door open a crack again to peer outside, and this time Aramis saw him tense. "She's coming."

The two men slipped quietly into a darkened corner behind a pillar and waited.

After several minutes, the door opened and Anne, the mother of Louis and Philippe, stepped into the chapel. She turned to close the door behind her, then approached the kneeling bench.

Spying the rose, she paused at the kneeling bench to pick it up and brushed its soft petals against her lips, inhaling its soft perfume. Smiling with the knowledge that he had returned safely from the journey he had taken, she knelt on the bench to pray silently for a moment. She then crossed herself reverently, and stood up again.

Concealed in the shadows behind the pillar, D'Artagnan drew his breath in sharply in reaction to her beauty, and the sound carried in the quiet room to her alert ears.

Turning, her eyes darted to the shadows, but she was not alarmed to see the figure of a man there. "Father Belles? Is that you?"

D'Artagnan stepped from behind the pillar. "No, it is I."

She recognized the voice immediately, but, unaccustomed to seeing him in civilian clothing, it took her eyes a moment to catch up with her ears. "D'Artagnan?" she asked. She started to go to him, but stopped when she saw Aramis step from behind him.

"Aramis?" she asked, startled to see him rather than her regular priest. Although Louis never made her privy to matters of state, she had heard snatches of talk that Aramis was being sought out by her son, for it appeared that he and his two friends, Porthos and Athos, had disappeared and were up to something that might undermine the government. Her eyes shifted back to D'Artagnan, for he was standing beside the priest, out of uniform, and with no apparent intention of arresting him. "Has something happened?" she asked. "Where is Father Belles?"

"We have come to you with news, and Father Belles agreed that the news should come from me," the priest said. "For it was I who carried the second of your twin sons away from the palace that night right after his birth."

Her eyes darted anxiously to D'Artagnan to gauge his reaction to the news that she had borne twins, and saw no surprise reflected in his blue eyes. She felt her heart leap with alarm. He knew! Somehow, he had found out!

Aramis continued, "I have prayed every day for forgiveness for my cruel act, but now I know that forgiveness must first come from you before it can come from God. Your Majesty, for years I have suffered with guilt for the role I played in separating you from your child, and in condemning him to a miserable existence. But now, we have the chance to make things right again, and that is why we have come."

She looked at him as he was speaking, hardly daring to believe the implications of his words. "You offer cryptic references to my lost son, whom I was told had died weeks ago within an iron mask. I must ask for clarification, as your words are ambiguous."

"As I just told you, it was I who took him from you, but it is I, and my friends, who will return him to you."

Hope sprang to her face, brightening her dark eyes. "He still lives?"

"Yes. My friends and I have removed him from the prison and from the mask."

"But the letter – Louis received a letter from the prison that the man in the mask had died. I saw it myself."

"An imposter. A man already dead, who I carried into the prison myself and left in Philippe's place, so that no one else would know the truth. I assure you, your majesty, that Philippe is very much alive."

Overcome by relief and joy, she covered her face with her hands and wept softly. "Thank you!" she wept, her voice muffled by her hands. "Thank you for saving my son!"

D'Artagnan could remain silent no longer. Reaching out, he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Anne," he said, softly.

Her eyes snapped up to his face, and he saw the guilt reflected there and the regret that she had withheld the existence of his other son.

Reaching out, he brushed the tears from her cheeks with his fingers as his eyes bored deep into hers, first one and then the other. In a gently reproachful voice, he asked, "Anne, why didn't you tell me there were two?"

To allow them some privacy, Aramis quietly excused himself and moved to the door of the chapel to stand guard. He tried to appear that he was not listening, but he could not help but overhear in the small building.

The queen mother's gaze followed Aramis to his position at the door. She knew he had heard the captain's inquiry, yet his expression registered no surprise. "He knows about us? You told him?"

"He figured out the truth. When he told me that you had given birth to twins, I imagine my face must have said it all. The agony I felt inside of learning that I had a second son, a son who had been living in a prison inside an iron mask for no other crime than his resemblance to Louis was devastating to me. When Aramis asked me the question, I could not lie. Athos and Porthos know as well, as does Philippe."

Her eyes widened with panic. "So many!" she exclaimed. "It is dangerous for so many to know!"

His hands gently cradled the sides of her face, calming her with his touch. "They will not tell anyone; you have my word. Our secret is safe with them."

She looked into his eyes, and felt soothed by his reassurances. "Philippe knows that he is your son?" she asked.

"Yes. Anne, about Philippe –"

"When they were born, I was told that Philippe had died immediately after," she interrupted, her voice barely above a whisper. "It wasn't until many years later, when the king was on his deathbed, that he revealed the truth to me and to Louis. I wanted to bring him back to Paris, to live with us at the palace, but Louis wouldn't hear of it. He feared his brother would challenge him to the throne, so he ordered Philippe removed to the prison and placed in the mask." She gazed imploringly into his eyes. "I never wanted to keep this from you. When he was born and I was told that he had died, there was no reason to tell you. He was gone, and telling you that you had a second son who had died would serve no purpose except to cause you more grief than you already had to bear. But then, when I found out the truth, I didn't know how to tell you. Nothing I could say or do could persuade Louis to release his brother, and I was afraid of what you would do if you knew the truth. I would rather die myself than for anything to happen to you. Please do not be angry with me."

His lips turned up in a slight smile. "I could never be angry with you, Anne. I was hurt and confused, wondering why you had kept this from me, but I know you were in a difficult position. And it began to make sense to me why you always seemed so sad, why you have shut yourself off from the rest of the world. You wanted to help him, but could not. I do wish you had told me, but I understand why you did not." He glanced at Aramis again, who had cracked open the door and was keeping a watchful eye. "I have come here with Aramis to speak to you about what we plan to do. Philippe is free. Athos, Porthos, and Aramis have freed him. They've been keeping him in a village a day's hard ride from here."

"He is safe?" she asked.

"Yes."

"I want to see him!" she pleaded.

"You will. Soon."

"No! Now! Please, take me to him! Take me to my son!"

He grasped both of her hands in his. "As much as I would love to take you there, where we could spend time as a family, you know that is not possible. You have been a recluse for so long that questions would be asked if you suddenly decided to take a trip."

"I do not care! We will think of something. D'Artagnan, please –"

"Anne, my love," he whispered softly, his heart aching that he must deny her request. "I would give anything to share that time with you and our son, but please think about what you are asking. We cannot risk Louis becoming suspicious and sending someone to follow you. If that happened, we would be leading that person directly to Philippe."

She bowed her head, resting her forehead against his shoulder, and finally accepted his logic. She drew a deep breath and released it in a heavy sigh of disappointment as she looked up into his face again. "You are right, D'Artagnan. I was not thinking ahead. I have not seen my son since the moment he was born, but I must not be selfish. His safety must come above everything else."

"I promise that you will meet him soon. He is anxious to see you as well."

He hesitated, casting another glance at Aramis, and found the priest looking back at him with a sympathetic expression, understanding that this was the moment he had been dreading. Aramis nodded, encouragingly, then turned his attention back to the door.

D'Artagnan continued, "Anne, there are other things that we must discuss. I have done everything my position allows me to do to mold Louis' character, to try to help him understand that the people of this country are his responsibility, but he disregards everything I say."

She nodded. "Yes. He ignores everything except his own pleasures and wants."

"We have two sons together, and as their parents, we must be united on what we both know must happen. Louis is unfit to rule. You know this as well as I. I have protected him his entire life. I have saved him from assassins six times in the past twelve months, but I will not be here forever to watch over him. The people are suffering great poverty under his reign. If things do not change, I fear there will be an open rebellion, and if that happens, there will be much blood shed and Louis will be deposed by influences under which we will have no control. We have a great opportunity here to decide the future of the country."

She looked at him for a long moment, comprehension on her attractive face. "You are proposing that we replace Louis with Philippe?" she guessed.

"The best thing would be for Louis to voluntarily step down from the throne and allow Philippe to rule in his place, but we both know that is unlikely to happen."

"He will never do that!" she declared. "It has been his biggest fear that Philippe will claim the throne. That is what led to the mask and the imprisonment in the first place!"

"I know. And since we cannot convince him to step down voluntarily, then he will have to be removed by force."

She looked distressed. "It will destroy him. He loves the power he has been given."

"It is a power that he abuses. It will be an adjustment, to be sure, but at least he will be alive. Under open rebellion, I cannot guarantee as much. The Jesuits are a force to be reckoned with, and they are gaining strength all the time, their ranks filled by men who are opposed to Louis. This is the only way to assure his safety."

"What will become of him?"

He looked away, unable to speak the words.

A chill of comprehension shivered through her body. "No! D'Artagnan, please!" she exclaimed, clutching desperately at the front of his shirt, imploring with her eyes. "We cannot do that to our son!"

He placed his hands on her shoulders in an effort to calm her. "Anne, agreeing to this was one of the hardest decisions I have ever made, but I don't know what else we can do."

"There must be some other way!" she pleaded. "He is our son!"

"I know. Philippe was against this as well, even after everything his brother has done to him. I assure you, it will only be for a short while. He must learn humility, and the only way for him to do that is to understand firsthand the hardships he has placed on others, beginning with the suffering he has placed on his own brother. Philippe has promised to show mercy as king. In time, Louis will be taken elsewhere and allowed to live out his life quietly, out of the public eye. You will be permitted to visit him, but he must never know that I am his father. He would use that knowledge against Philippe."

She lowered her gaze, her eyes studying the untied laces on the upper front of his shirt and the smooth skin that showed between them. "It will only be for a short time?"

"Yes, until other arrangements can be made."

"These arrangements cannot be made beforehand, to spare him this humiliation?"

"No, I'm afraid not. There are too many intricacies. The place we take him must be secured, and we must find people to care for him, people who will treat him with respect, but who will not be bribed by him. A cloth mask will be commissioned for him to wear while in the company of others, which will be more comfortable for him than the iron one he fashioned for his brother, but he will not be required to wear it when he is alone or with you."

"Where will he be taken?"

"I was thinking the country estate that was owned by your husband's late relatives. There is already a high wall around the courtyard, where he may take the sun. A few modifications will secure it completely. Anne, if there was any other way . . . " His voice trailed, and he did not complete the sentence.

Anne considered his words carefully, and after a long pause, she finally nodded. "I understand. I wish there was a different way, but I do understand. How long will he have to suffer?"

"Hopefully, not long."

It was not the answer she was hoping to hear, but it would have to do. "Then I must be strong, and pray that he will soon be free of the prison and the iron mask." Looking up into his eyes again, she urged, "Tell me of Philippe."

"He has endured his ordeal with remarkable courage and dignity. In fact, he is the exact opposite of Louis in everything except appearance. They look almost exactly alike, but where Louis is cold and hard, Philippe is kind and gentle. The biggest difference in them is around the eyes. Philippe's eyes are compassionate, where Louis' eyes show no mercy for anyone. Philippe will make a good king because he understands hardship. I believe that he will bring peace and prosperity to this country."

"Then it must be so. That is where you have been all this time? With Philippe?"

"Yes. We – Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and myself – have been training him in preparation for his ascension to the throne. Just so you know, he did not want to take his brother's throne, at first. It is strange, but he has feelings for his brother, a brother he has never even met. At first, he must pass for Louis, but he will gradually assert his own personality. We explained things to him, and allowed him to make a decision. I believe he made the right one. For the first time, Anne, I know what it is like for a father to feel pride for his son. I feared I would never know such a thing."

Reaching up, she caressed his cheek with her fingertips. "Thank you for telling me. When will you make the exchange?"

"Aramis has suggested bringing Philippe in during the ball. There will be a crowd of people, their faces covered with masks, so it will be easy to slip him inside without detection. I will find a way to notify you when it happens. In the meantime, you must not let Louis know that something is amiss."

"That will not be difficult, for I rarely see him these days. It has been more than three months since I have had a conversation with him, and even longer since we have dined together."

"Ordinarily, I would be sorry for his neglect of you, but in this case, it may be a good thing, for it will be difficult for you to see him, knowing what is going to happen." He glanced toward the door. "The longer we remain here, the more dangerous it is. We must leave now."

"You are returning to Philippe?" she asked, anxiously.

"Yes."

Reaching beneath the collar of her dress, she withdrew a gold cross on a chain and unfastened it. Placing it in D'Artagnan's hand, she said, "Please, give this to him. And let him know that I will be praying for his safe trip to Paris, where we will be reunited."

"He will be pleased to know this."

She placed her arms around him and embraced him tightly.

When they withdrew, he hesitated briefly, then leaned toward her and pressed his lips to hers. She welcomed his kiss, accepting and returning his love, her fingertips gently caressing his cheek.

Aramis observed them for a moment, understanding that they could never display their affection for one another openly, then he politely turned away.

A moment later, D'Artagnan was at his side. The two men slipped quietly out the door, around the side of the building, and made their way back to the road where the carriage was waiting.

Anne waited for several minutes after they left, offering a prayer of gratitude that her younger son had been spared, then she made her way back up the path toward the palace, her heart lifted by the news that he would soon join her. Her only regret was that she, her lover, and their two sons could never truly be a family.


	20. Chapter Twenty

Twenty

Philippe turned his attention up the long road that led toward Paris, but saw nothing, not even a plume of dust to indicate a traveler was approaching. He felt a twinge of disappointment, for Athos had told him that D'Artagnan would likely return that day. His eyes moved upward toward the sun which continued its slow progression across the sky, and knew that it was early yet, only a short time after noon, far too soon to expect the coach, yet the young man allowed his eyes to wander along the curving road once again, eager to see his father.

Something hard tapped him on the backside, jolting him out of his thoughts, and he turned toward his fencing instructor with quizzical eyes. Athos had prodded him with the flat of his sword to gain his attention.

"Your mind wanders, Philippe," the older man told him in his typically quiet and precise way of speaking. "Let us complete the lesson, then you may have the rest of the day to watch the road if that is what you wish to do."

Philippe flinched inwardly at the criticism he had heard in his instructor's voice, and sighed with resignation. Concentrating on his lesson today would be difficult, but he knew it was expected of him, so he assumed the posture of a swordsman and resumed the training. The two men circled, attacked, and parried in rapid succession, then regrouped and again their swords clanged together. Each time they stepped back to regroup, Philippe cast a quick glance up the road before returning his attention to his teacher.

At last, he successfully made the offensive maneuvers necessary to push Athos backward several yards before the former Musketeer was able to rally.

"Excellent, Philippe!" he praised, lowering the sword to his side. "You are showing tremendous progress. Your father will be very proud of how hard you have been working. I am proud of you, also."

Philippe smiled, appreciatively. "Your approval means a lot to me."

Both men were breathing heavily from the exertion of the strenuous lesson. "Come, let us rest for a few moments," Athos suggested as he moved to a nearby tree, and leaned back against the trunk.

Philippe propped the sword in front of him, point down, and folded both hands on the hilt, a posture reminiscent of how D'Artagnan sometimes stood following a successful fight, bringing fond memories to Athos. Once again, the younger man's eyes strayed to the empty road that led toward Paris. It was very easy for the former Musketeer to determine the thoughts behind those youthful eyes.

"You miss him."

Philippe turned his head to look at Athos. "Very much."

"He will return, soon. In fact, he is probably on the road at this very moment, but it is a long trip, so I would not expect them to arrive until sometime after dark."

Philippe nodded his understanding, but his worried expression indicated that he had other concerns. "What if Mother is against me taking the throne from Louis? What if she does not even want me?"

Athos's expression became stern. "There will be no such talk, Philippe. Your mother wanted you very much. When she learned that you were still alive, she insisted that you be returned to the palace to take your rightful place, but your brother would not allow it. D'Artagnan told me something the other night. He said that shortly before he left Paris, he found your mother in the palace chapel, weeping. He believes it was the night word arrived from the prison that the man in the mask had died. She was crying for you, Philippe, because a mother's love is the most perfect love there is."

Philippe's eyes misted slightly as he thought of his mother's grief. During his rescue by the former Musketeers, he had not considered that he even had a mother who still lived, or that word of his "death" would be sent to her. And since learning of his heritage, he had been too busy to even think about it.

"I cannot wait to meet her. I have dreamt of her ever since I was a child, wondering who she was and what she was like, but I always assumed she had died while I was a baby. I never imagined that she would be the queen of France!"

"Properly, she is now known as the Queen Mother," Athos said. "When you marry, your wife will be the queen."

Philippe averted his eyes as his thoughts went to the former king, the man who had believed him to be his son. "I have been thinking about the former king as well. He thought Louis and I were his sons. How could a father send his own son away like that? How could he have no feelings for his child?"

Athos looked at him for a long moment, his thoughts drifting to his own son. His former social status as count placed him in closer proximity to the king's level, but he could think of nothing that could justify giving up his son. "That is not an easy question to answer," he said at last. "I can only guess that the king feared you and your brother, being so close in age, would fight over the throne. You were born only minutes apart, and you might feel that your right was as legitimate as his."

"I wouldn't have," Philippe said. "I would have been grateful simply to be part of a family."

"It is easy to say what you would or would not do, but power and wealth is a very corruptive environment, Philippe," Athos told him. "You were raised away from all of that, raised as a commoner. Had you grown up in the palace as a prince, you're attitude might have been entirely different."

"I cannot imagine such a thing," Philippe said, truthfully.

Athos smiled, indulgently. "Neither can I. However, we will never know how different your life would have been had you remained in the palace. Even if you had no designs on the throne, you still would have been regarded as a threat to the stability of the nation. So the king removed that possibility by removing you from the palace. You were never supposed to know your true identity. He paid the woman well to care for you and provide you with a good home, so there must have been some feelings in his heart for you. The alternative is that you could have been smothered with a pillow, solving his problem permanently. Instead, he sent you away to be reared by someone who would care for you."

"She was good to me," he said. He looked up again, his attention focused on something in the distance.

Noticing the intensity of his gaze, Athos inquired, "What is it?"

"Is that Aramis's coach?"

Athos turned to look, observing the black coach that was moving up the road toward the entrance to the walled town, pulled by four horses. "Yes, I believe it is."

An enthusiastic smile flashed across Philippe's face. With the lesson suddenly forgotten, he sprinted up the incline toward the town. Athos watched him with an amused smile, wishing he still had the energy of youth that enabled the younger man to move so quickly.

Philippe reached the coach just as the door opened, and D'Artagnan emerged from it. "I'm glad you're back!" he said in greeting. "You weren't expected until after dark."

"We left yesterday evening, and spent the night on the road," D'Artagnan replied.

"And I am very pleased to see that you are still working on your lessons," Aramis said cheerfully as he stepped from the coach, noticing the sword that was still clutched in the boy's hand.

Philippe grinned, sheepishly. He had forgotten all about the sword. "Athos and I were working down by the river when I saw your coach coming. Did you see my mother? Did you talk to her?"

"Yes," D'Artagnan replied. "Come with me to my room, and we will talk."

Philippe reached for D'Artagnan's luggage, but the Musketeer brushed his hand aside. "The time has come for you to start acting the part of king. From this moment forward, you must always comport yourself in the manner appropriate for your office. I know you wish to help, but you must become accustomed to behaving a certain way. A king never serves; he is served by others. There must never be any deviation from what you are. I will carry my own luggage."

Philippe backed off, his countenance becoming more serious as he began to face the reality and the consequences of the decision he had made. "It is really happening, then?"

"It is really happening." D'Artagnan noticed the contemplative expression on his son's face, and patted his shoulder affectionately. "Everything will be fine, Philippe."

D'Artagnan picked up his luggage, and they went inside the house, where Angelina had only recently cleaned up the kitchen following lunch.

The woman looked up with a pleasant smile. "Welcome back, _Monsieur_," she said with a quick curtsy. "Have you eaten? I could prepare something for you if you wish."

"Thank you, but we ate on the road," he replied. "Nothing as good as your fine meals, of course," he added, smiling as she beamed with pleasure in response to his praise, "but it filled us up."

"Then I will prepare a special meal for supper to honor your return," she promised.

"That would be appreciated," he said.

With Philippe walking behind him, he left the kitchen and went up the stairs to his room.

As he placed his satchel on his bed, Philippe asked, "You spoke with Mother about me?"

"Yes. She was overjoyed to learn that you are alive and well, and free of the mask." He removed his jacket, shook the travel dust from it, and hung it on the peg.

Philippe looked greatly relieved. "I fear my imagination ran away with me while you were gone. I worried that she would not want me."

D'Artagnan placed a hand on his son's shoulder in a firm grip. "Do not think that for a moment. She is so eager to see you that she wanted to come back here with me. It was only the reminders that your safety was at stake that convinced her that she must wait until our arrival in Paris."

Moving to the wash table, he poured water from the pitcher into the basin, and washed his face and hands, then reached for the towel on which to dry himself. Philippe resisted the urge to hand the towel to him, remembering that he must no longer do such things.

"I wish she could have come with you," he mused. "Then we could have been together as a family."

D'Artagnan finished drying his face, and laid the towel aside. "As do I. Nothing would give me more pleasure than for the three of us to be able to spend time together in this place, but her absence would have raised suspicion, and I fear Louis might have sent someone to follow her."

"Which would have led them directly to me," the young man completed the thought.

"Exactly."

"How does she feel about me taking Louis' place?" he asked, apprehensively, the question that had troubled him ever since his father had departed for Paris.

"She is supportive that you should replace your brother as king. She has seen firsthand the mishandling of his position."

Philippe looked both surprised and relieved. "She did not object?"

"She is as opposed to the mask as you were, but I explained that it was only temporary, and it seemed to ease her mind a bit."

"I was afraid she would hate me for taking the throne from him and forcing him to wear the mask."

"She knows that it was not your doing, and she understands that there is no other way. She asked me to tell you that she loves you, and that she looks forward to seeing you." He withdrew a folded handkerchief from his luggage, and carefully unwrapped it. Inside was a beautiful gold cross on a gold chain. "She asked me to give this to you. It is very old and very valuable. It was given to her by her mother, who in turn received it from her mother. It has been passed down from mother to child for many generations, and she wishes you to have it. Since she was a young girl, she has worn it against her heart." He placed the cross and chain in Philippe's hand.

"I will treasure it always." He fastened the chain around his neck, allowing the gold cross to rest against his chest, admiring it in the mirror on the wall. "You have given me a horse, and my mother has given me this cross, both things of value, but they mean much more to me than that. Of all the things I will have as king, none will mean more to me than those two things because they were given to me by my parents."

D'Artagnan smiled, amused. "Those are not the only gifts that you will receive from us, my son."

Philippe turned away from the mirror. "Having the two of you in my life is a gift I had never even hoped to experience. It would have been enough."

"Your humility pleases me very much, Philippe. Promise me that you will always retain your humbleness, for the environment into which you are stepping is very corruptive. Power and wealth have the ability to change people, to inspire them do things they would not ordinarily do, and no man is immune to its seductive allure."

"Athos said almost exactly the same thing only moments before you arrived."

"You must always be aware of how your position as king is affecting you, and never let it make you think that you are better than those outside the palace gate. All your subjects deserve fair treatment. As king, you will make difficult decisions that will affect the lives of those around you, but as a man, you must be greater than the title you hold."

"I will strive to live up to your expectations of me," Philippe said, softly.

"I do not say these things to place undue burden upon you. I only seek to advise you of how power, especially that which is suddenly thrust upon you, can alter the values with which you were raised. I had to stand back and watch while Louis' power consumed him." He cupped an affectionate hand against Philippe's cheek in a fatherly caress. "I will not sit quietly by and see the same thing happen to you."

Philippe smiled. "I would expect no less than for you to keep me in line."

D'Artagnan removed his hand, silently reminding himself that he must never do such a thing in public, and turned his attention to his sword, which was removed and hung by its baldric on a peg. "Are you nervous about your decision?"

"Yes. Athos and Porthos say I am ready, but I'm not sure I will ever be completely ready." He raised his hand to cut off his father's expected reply. "I know, you and the others will be there to help me, but my brother has had a lifetime of training, whilst I have only had a few weeks to prepare."

D'Artagnan smiled. "I was only going to say that I understand your concerns. In your position, I would feel the same way." He paused to rub his eyes, as if weary.

Philippe noticed. "You are tired from your trip. I will leave you to rest. We can talk later."

"Thank you. We stopped at an inn last night, but the bed was severely lacking in comfort, and I fear I did not rest well. I will rest for a few hours, and then we will speak some more."

Philippe backed out of the room, just as Aramis opened his own door, looking every bit as weary as the Musketeer captain.

"Call me for supper," the priest yawned as he stepped inside and closed the door.

With his fingers fondly gently stroking the gold cross that lay against his skin, Philippe walked slowly down the stairs.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

D'Artagnan rested for several hours in his room, and when he arose he decided that the time had come to honor another promise he had made to his son. Soon, they would be returning to Paris, and their time to open share as father and son was drawing to a close. Leaving his room, he came down the stairs and entered the drawing room where most of his friends were gathered. Porthos and Athos were both there with Philippe, but Aramis was apparently still in his room.

Turning to his son, he said, "Philippe, I propose that we see about finding a horse for me to ride, so that you and I can have a ride together."

Philippe instantly rose from his chair, eager to take a ride with his father. "I was hoping we would get a chance to ride before we go to Paris."

"We will return before supper," D'Artagnan said to his friends as he and Philippe moved toward the door.

As they stepped outside and walked toward the horse stable, Philippe asked, "Everything is about to change, isn't it? All the moments we have been able to share in this village will stop."

"Well, it will be different, but there will be moments within your private chambers that we can recapture some of what he have experienced here. But yes, everything is about to change."

They proceeded down the street, and entered the stable, looking for one of the stable hands who might direct them to someone willing to rent a horse. They quickly found a young man cleaning out one of the stalls, and approached him.

"Pardon me, but would you know of someone who might be willing to rent a horse for a few hours?" D'Artagnan asked. "I only brought the black with me when I arrived, and I wish to take a ride with –" he caught himself before speaking the words my son, and altered his sentence. "—with Philippe."

The man leaned on his pitchfork, observing the out of uniform Musketeer, recognizing him as one of the men living in the house with their Jesuit leader. He had seen him and the others giving the young man various lessons, and although everyone thought this peculiar to be training someone who should have learned these things years ago, no one questioned it, sensing somehow that this was part of Aramis's plan. "You are the friend of Father Aramis, are you not?"

D'Artagnan nodded, affirmatively.

"When he first arrived, he requested the use of the bay gelding in the corner stall at the end of the aisle. He was going to use him to give some riding instruction to _Monsieur_ Philippe, but then never came for him. He hasn't been ridden in a few weeks, so he may be feisty, but if you wish to use him, you may. I will saddle him for you."

"Thank you."

While the stable hand fetched the bay gelding and saddled him, D'Artagnan saddled the black for Philippe. Minutes later, the stocky bay gelding was presented to the Musketeer captain, and he and Philippe led their mounts outside the stable into the courtyard to mount.

Philippe was now much stronger, and mounted with almost as much ease as his father. He settled into the saddle and waited while D'Artagnan mounted the bay. As the Musketeer gathered his reins, the unfamiliar horse pranced beneath him, snorting excitedly through dilated nostrils in anticipation of a good run. Its handsome neck was gracefully arched, and it tossed its mane impatiently and pawed at the ground.

D'Artagnan was impressed with the spirited animal, but Philippe was concerned by its behavior. "Is he wild?"

"No. He has just been kept in his stall too long, and is eager to get the kinks out of his legs. It is a cruelty to keep a horse stabled for so long. He was confined for Aramis's use, but he apparently neglected to inform the stable that he would not be needed."

"A lot has been happening, with Porthos's illness and the trip back to Paris," Philippe reminded him. "He probably just forgot."

"You are most likely correct," D'Artaganan agreed. "It has been a busy few weeks for him."

Easing back on the reins, he allowed the horse to move toward the entrance to the walled village. The animal fought the bit, struggling for its head, but was restrained by the Musketeer's firm hand.

The stable hand was watching from the doorway, impressed by the Musketeer's experience in handling the strong-willed animal, then returned to his work.

The bay gelding attempted to break into a canter, still snorting and swishing its tail impatiently.

"Not yet, my friend," D'Artagnan said to the horse, giving it a friendly pat on the neck. "We shall have a good run, but it will be at my bidding, after you are warmed up a bit."

Philippe's black horse was walking obediently, but its step was quick and smart and its head and tail were carried high, somewhat excited by the behavior of its riding partner.

The father and his son proceeded out of town at a brisk walk, following the long dirt road toward the bridge that spanned the river, and then beyond. They passed the large patches of wheat and oats and the vegetable gardens owned by the townspeople, and moved past the pasturelands into the open fields. Here, the two men gave the horses their heads, and allowed them to break into a strong canter for several miles. They were not intentionally racing, but the horses seemed to regard it as such, and each one attempted to surge ahead of the other, but was kept at even strides with its partner by the rider on its back. With manes and tails flying and hooves thudding on the hard ground, the horses enjoyed the brisk pace as much as their riders, and both steeds snorted their protest when they were finally pulled back into a walk to take a breather as they reached an intersecting crossroad. They turned onto it, and continued onward.

"This is much farther than I have ever gone before," Philippe commented as they settled down to a comfortable walk again, side by side. "Since reaching the village, I have never traveled beyond the bridge. I feared I would not be able to find my way back."

"That is a legitimate concern," D'Artagnan agreed. "You've had little instruction on how to find your way, and have been isolated your entire life. You were wise to recognize your limitations and remain close."

They fell silent again for a while, listening to the horse's hooves clopping on the hard road beneath them. The younger man gazed admiringly at his father's countenance for a moment, observing how his eyes continually darted from point to point, always aware of his surroundings. The wisdom and experience reflected on his face were clearly visible in his quiet, confident demeanor. Philippe wondered if he would ever be so self-assured. With a contented sigh, he allowed his eyes to drift over the landscape, taking notice of the tall gently waving grass and the foliage laden trees.

"This is such a beautiful area, not at all like Yvette's farm," he said, breaking the silence. "Then again, I never saw much of the surrounding areas, just the bare dirt and patches of dry yellowed grass around the house and barn, and the plowed earth of the garden. She had a couple of trees that didn't put on many leaves, even during the summer. Even the fruit trees did not produce well."

D'Artagnan smiled. "Curiously, that is how I remember my father's farm. There was a lot of dirt! The land we lived on was not very fertile. Coaxing our crops out of the ground was always a struggle, even with the barnyard litter as fertilizer."

Philippe laughed, happily. "You had to shovel manure as well?"

"It is a part of farm life, and yes, I shoveled my full share."

"I find it ironic that you and I both have such humble beginnings."

"Your beginning was not so humble, but everything that came after was."

"Aramis said that my mother was told I had died at birth. Who told her this lie? The king or her midwife?"

"A physician and a priest were both present for the delivery, as were several attendants," D'Artagnan replied. "It must have been humiliating for her to have an audience during such a vulnerable time. It was the priest who told the lie on the order of the king."

Philippe appeared surprised. "So there are others who know of my existence?"

"They knew that twins were born, but like your mother, they were informed that the younger twin had died immediately after birth. Among them, only the priest knows the truth, and he was ---" he fell abruptly silent, his attention riveted on something in the road ahead of them.

Philippe followed his father's gaze, and saw that a pair of horsemen had just appeared over the rise of earth in the road far ahead of them. He saw nothing unique about them, merely travelers on their way to a destination unknown to him, but D'Artagnan must have seen something about them that troubled him, for he instantly raised his hand to stop, and then he gestured urgently toward a nearby grove of trees.

"Come; we must get off this road. Now."

Hoping that they had not been seen by the distant strangers, D'Artagnan nudged the bay with his heel as they turned toward the trees, urging it into a brisk trot as they sought the shelter of the grove. The black followed without waiting for instruction from its rider. Once inside the protection of the dense foliage, the Musketeer dismounted, and gestured for Philippe to do the same.

Philippe felt alarmed by the urgency with which his father had reacted. "Who are they?" he asked in a worried voice as he dismounted.

"I do not know them personally," D'Artagnan answered, "but it is better that you are not seen." He placed his hand lightly on the bay's muzzle. "If your horse attempts to whinny at their horses, you must keep him silent. Place you hand on his muzzle, like this. As they draw nearer, move your hand down so that it covers his nostrils. He will be distracted by this, and will attempt to move your hand, and will be less likely to call to them."

Following his father's directive, Philippe placed his hand on the black's muzzle just above its nostrils, stroking gently, and they waited.

As the traveler's drew hearer, they were able to clearly see the fine clothes worn by the two men who rode in the lead. Behind them was an expensive looking coach, driven by a well dressed groom. A footman sat rigidly beside him, and inside the vehicle were two women.

Philippe scrutinized the strangers carefully, eager to understand why his father had regarded them as a threat. "They are wealthy."

"Yes. Most likely, they are headed for Paris to attend the ball being given by your brother. Which means that they most likely know what Louis looks like. That is why I felt it imperative to conceal you from them."

Philippe felt a chill shiver down his spine, realizing that if not for his father's alertness, he would have been noticed and reported to the king. He did not have long to dwell on it, however, for the black lifted its head and its ears pricked forward, watching the traveler's horses. He slid his hand down over the horse's nostrils, and sure enough the animal tossed its head, attempting to rid itself of the hand that it feared would block its airway. He kept the hand there, not applying enough pressure to actually prevent the horse from breathing, but enough to keep it distracted. The black fidgeted and sidestepped. Beside him, he noticed that the bay was similarly agitated by D'Artagnan's hand.

The travelers passed them and continued onward, unaware of the two men who observed them from the trees. Even after they had passed, D'Artagnan continued to wait and watch until they had completely disappeared around a bend in the road, then he cautiously observed both ends of the thoroughfare before deeming it safe to emerge from their hiding place.

They led the horses into the open again and mounted, but D'Artagnan's mood was greatly subdued by what had happened. The fact that he was as well known as the king made it doubly dangerous for he and Philippe to be seen, and this weighed heavily on his mind as he took up his reins again. "For your safety, I think we should stay on the less traveled road," he suggested. "Even better, let's cut across the countryside, where we are less likely to encounter other travelers."

"That was close, wasn't it?" Philippe asked.

"Too close."

Turning their horses around, they circled the grove of trees and rode on the grassy turf. They were in open country, owned by no one. In the distance, they saw a shepherd from the village tending his sheep as they grazed on the lush green grass, while an attentive shepherd's dog kept constant watch on the flock. Neither the man nor the dog paid any attention to the horsemen.

When they came to a narrow streambed that meandered through the hills, D'Artagnan nudged the bay's sides as they went down the bank. Its ears flicked forward, as if to assess the danger of getting its hooves wet, then splashed through it. The black, however, decided to jump it, a new experience for its young rider and one for which he was unprepared. When the gelding launched itself over the water, Philippe felt himself bounce backward over the cantle until he was on the animal's haunches, and as it scrambled up the bank, the young man, already off balance, slid ride off the back and landed on the ground with a thud and a grunt.

D'Artagnan instantly whirled around, and realized what had happened. Grinning with amusement, he leaned over to grasp the black's dangling reins. "Are you all right?" he asked.

"My pride is severely wounded, but I am all right," Philippe replied as he climbed to his feet. "I thought he would wade through the water, like your horse did, so I was not expecting him to jump over it."

"I should have warned you. He did the same thing with me as I traveled here."

"I will wager a bet and say that you did not fall off."

"You would win that bet," D'Artagnan admitted. "However, an unexpected jump can cause any man to lose his balance, even me. Next time you come to a stream, grasp a handful of mane and lean forward, just in case."

Philippe took the reins that D'Artagnan offered, and remounted.

They fell silent again, and for a long time, neither spoke as they walked their horses side by side. As he observed his father, the younger man knew that the Musketeer remained troubled. Philippe understood that encountering the noblemen could have been disastrous, but everything had turned out all right in the end and he puzzled over D'Artagnan's sudden dark mood. They were safe now, yet the older man's brow was furrowed, his eyes somber.

Soon, the walled village could be seen atop its rise of earth, and Philippe knew that his outing was almost over. D'Artagnan had not spoken of returning to the community, but the silent order was as powerful as a spoken one, and the young future king chose not to question it, trusting his father's judgment.

"I have enjoyed this ride, Father," he said. "I only wish it did not have to end so quickly."

D'Artagnan smiled, his worry easing somewhat as they neared the township. "We will have other opportunities to ride together. I am your head body guard, after all. We will ride as often as you desire. All you must do is say that you wish to, in Louis' words, 'Take the air', and request that I accompany you, and it shall be as you wish. I have ridden with Louis, so it will raise no eyebrows."

"Then we shall do it," Philippe said. "Do you think Mother will accompany us sometimes?"

"Now that would raise some eyebrows. Your mother has not ridden a horse since before you were born, and rarely leaves her apartments. With you on the throne, perhaps she will have reason to emerge more often, but I doubt that she will ever join us on our rides."

Philippe was disappointed, but understood. "I guess it would look too much like a family, wouldn't it?"

"I would be required to ride behind the two of you," D'Artagnan explained.

Philippe gave a reluctant nod. "I understand. I have not yet been told about the staff at the palace. Are there any names I need to remember?"

"Louis has a large staff to assist him with his daily activity, but I doubt if he knows the names of most of them, for he refers to them as 'You, there', much of the time. However, there are a few who are quite close to him, whose names you must know. His chief advisor is Claude. His other advisor, the one who was executed, was Pierre. The one who may pose a particular threat to you is Francois, who helps Louis bathe and dress."

Philippe looked shocked by this startling revelation. "I am to have someone assist me with bathing and dressing?"

"Yes, and he may be a serious problem, for he will likely notice any differences between you and Louis, such as blemishes, birthmarks, or skin imperfections anywhere on your body. I am thinking that he will need to be replaced."

"Will he not think it strange to be suddenly released from service if he has always done a suitable job?"

D'Artagnan nodded his head in agreement. "Yes, most likely he will. We must think of a promotion of some kind. I will ask Anne for her thoughts on this matter."

Philippe's nose was wrinkled with distaste. "I do not like the idea of this at all. I am a big boy after all, quite capable of bathing and dressing myself. Is there some rule that states I must have someone to help me do these things?"

D'Artagnan could not suppress his laughter. "No, there is no rule, but it is the way it has always been. To abruptly abandon the practice would not be wise."

Philippe sighed, heavily, and repeated, "I do not like this at all."

"It is not such an issue, Philippe. You will grow accustomed to it. Has Athos provided you with the floor plans of the palace?"

"Yes. He had a model constructed so that he could indicate important rooms I must remember."

"Good. Excellent. There will be some things which we will have to address as they occur, but I think most things of importance have been covered."

When they entered the village, they rode directly to the stable and dismounted. Philippe started to unsaddle his horse but was stopped by D'Artagnan.

"The stable hands will care for him," he said, a brusque reminder that he must alter his behavior.

Philippe stepped back. "I'm sorry. I forgot."

D'Artagnan led both horses into the stable, and turned them over to the stable workers to be untacked, groomed, and returned to their stalls.

"How did it go, _Monsieur_?" the stable hand asked.

"He was a pleasure to ride," D'Artagnan replied, giving the bay gelding a friendly pat on the neck. "However, he will no longer be needed, as we will soon be leaving for Paris."

"Very good, _Monsieur_."

Then, rejoining Philippe outside, they walked up to the house together.

Aramis had joined his friends in the drawing room, and all three looked up when D'Artagnan and Philippe entered.

"How was your ride?" the priest inquired.

"It was wonderful!" Philippe exclaimed enthusiastically. "As I was telling Father, I have never been so far away from the village before, so the change of scenery was very welcomed."

"I am glad you enjoyed yourself."

D'Artagnan drew a chair at the table and sat down. "We were nearly discovered," he said, drawing their rapt attention. "Two noblemen on horseback and their ladies in a carriage were traveling along the road toward Paris. I presume they were on their way to attend Louis' ball."

"Father spotted them, and we hid in a grove of trees until they had passed," Philippe added.

"And they did not see you?" Athos asked with concern.

"Apparently not, for they passed without so much as a glance at the trees which concealed us," D'Artagnan replied.

"That could have been disastrous." Aramis leaned back, tugging thoughtfully at the graying hairs on his chin. "It was bound to happen sooner or later, though, and will likely happen again. The ball draws nearer, and noble men and women from all over the country will be traveling to Paris. Some of them may even pass through this village. The sooner we get him to Porthos's estate, the better."

"I think the time has come," D'Artagnan said. "It is the safest place for him now."

"I agree," Athos said. Turning to the now-sober ex-Musketeer, he asked, "How much preparation will you require to ready your estate for us?"

Porthos shrugged. "I have very little staff left," he admitted. "I dare say, most of them tired of my drunken behavior these past few years and sought employment elsewhere. I have only a very loyal housekeeper, Margot, and her assistant left. My groom is discontent, but unless things have changed over the past few weeks, he is still present."

"Will any of them be a threat to us?" Aramis asked.

"No. I can assure you of that. As for preparations, Margot is most efficient and can have our rooms ready for us in a single day. I will leave for Paris in the morning, and send the coach back once I arrive."

"That would take too long,' D'Artagnan objected. "I would prefer that we all go together tomorrow. I fear for Philippe's safety, and do not want to remain here any longer than absolutely necessary. The sooner he is settled in at the estate, the better."

Aramis was shaking his head. "That is short notice. We will not arrive until late in the evening, and it is doubtful that the housekeeper, even with her assistant, can have the rooms ready for us to retire."

"I shall write to Margot and send it ahead with a courier," Porthos suggested. "He should arrive by morning, and she can have the day to prepare."

"Have you a cook who can care for so many of us?" Athos inquired.

Porthos smiled a mysterious little smile. "I do indeed, and she will be accompanying us."

The others exchanged knowing glances. It took very little effort to deduce who the cook would be.

"That is going to be a crowded coach!" Athos teased.

"Then write your letter, and I shall summon a courier," Aramis said. "Athos, while I do that, will you notify my driver to have the coach ready at five o'clock in the morning?"

Athos instantly stood up and strode from the room to seek out the driver. Porthos went to the desk and began to write out his instructions to the housekeeper. With the others making their preparations, Aramis hurried to summon the courier. Within the hour, the courier was on his way back to Paris.


	21. Chapter Twenty One

Twenty One

It was still dark when Philippe was awakened by a hand gently shaking his shoulder. His eyes opened with a start, and he lifted his head from the pillow to find his father standing beside him, a candle in one hand and the other hand still resting on his shoulder.

Philippe squinted against the light emitted by the dancing flame, and rubbed his fingers in his eyes in an attempt to drive away the fog of drowsiness that lingered. D'Artagnan had never come to his room in the middle of the night before; something serious must have happened. "Father? Is something wrong?" he asked as he pushed himself up on one elbow.

"No, son. It is time to get up. We leave for Paris within the hour."

The jolt of remembrance slammed down on Philippe, and he felt his heart leap with dread. The reality of what lay ahead for him had been temporarily driven away by the welcome oblivion of sleep, and he immediately felt his stomach tighten as it all returned.

D'Artagnan felt the slight tremor that ran through the young man's body, and he released his shoulder, patted it reassuringly, then turned and held the flame of his candle to the one on the bedside table until it was lit.

"What time is it?" Philippe asked.

"Four o'clock."

He noticed that the Musketeer was already fully dressed and shaved, but had apparently delayed waking his son as long as possible. He wondered what time his father had risen, and if he had lain awake half the night too. D'Artagnan's voice interrupted his thoughts, and his eyes darted up to meet those of his father.

"I will leave you to dress," he was saying. "The rest of us will be in the kitchen." With an encouraging smile, he backed out of the room and closed the door.

Philippe fell back on the pillow once again, but it was not from lingering drowsiness. Instead, an intense feeling of apprehension seeped into his stomach driving away all remnants of sleep. This, he decided, was what a condemned man must feel like on the day of his execution. Except it was not his physical self who would die; it was only his name. Today, the charade would begin. They were leaving the village, a place in which Philippe felt safe and comfortable, and moving to Porthos's estate outside the great city. From there, he would be transferred to the palace where he would live out his life as king. For the rest of his life, he would be known publicly as Louis, and would rule the country in his place. Nothing would ever be the same.

With a sigh of resignation, he tossed back the covers and got out of bed to dress.

After closing the door behind him, D'Artagnan made his way down the stairs, lighting the way with the candle he carried. He had noticed the anxious expression on Philippe's youthful face, and understood completely how the young man was feeling, for he shared those same concerns. During the training period, it was hard to imagine that this day would soon arrive, and that Philippe would be facing what could in fact be a dangerous exchange.

As he entered the kitchen, he found Athos and Porthos seated at the table. Athos was rubbing his fingers in his eyes, and Porthos was resting his head in one hand, his eyes closed as if unable to bring himself fully awake. Aramis was fetching a loaf of bread wrapped in a cloth from the cupboard, and in the priest's obvious excitement he appeared to be the only bright-eyed one among them.

"Breakfast will be a meager meal this morning," he announced. "Angelina arrived early to prepare something for us, but I am too energized for a large meal and presumed the rest of you would be also, so I instructed her to go home and bid farewell to her family. She will join us at the coach when we are ready to leave."

Porthos yawned widely, generating a round of yawns around the table. "She is sad to be leaving her family, but happy to be embarking on a life with me. I have found a treasured cook in that woman, and a good companion. I dare say, she is quite fond of me."

Athos and D'Artagnan exchanged amused smiles.

Aramis placed the bread on the table and with a knife began cutting thick slices. "Have you awakened Philippe yet?" he asked.

D'Artagnan nodded. "He is dressing now, and will be joining us soon."

"Good. I suppose he is very excited about his new life."

D'Artagnan shrugged. "I am not sure excited is exactly what he is feeling at the moment. Nervous and worried are probably closer to what he is actually feeling. I would be in his place."

"No, you wouldn't," Aramis contradicted, but there was a smile in his voice as well as on his lips. "By the time you were his age, you were accustomed to danger."

"True. But Philippe is not. Everything that was done to him was done against his will. He had no say in any of it. That is why I was so adamant that this decision be his alone, for he is the one who must live with the consequences of that decision."

"I must confess to being a bit worried about that," Aramis admitted. "But I am pleased that he made the right decision."

D'Artagnan lowered his gaze to the worn table top. Now that the task was at hand, he hoped it _was_ the right decision. Everything must be so precise during the exchange. At any time, one small, seemingly insignificant mistake could cost them everything.

Athos noticed his change of demeanor. "You are worried?"

He looked up, his eyes meeting those of his friend. "We must use extra caution to make sure that the exchange is made safely. Our margin for error is not that great, and I do not wish harm to come to either of my sons."

With the entire loaf of bread sliced, Aramis placed a crock of butter and another of jam in the center of the table for their use, then took his usual place at the head of the table, and everyone bowed their heads while Aramis offered a prayer of thanks. When the prayer was completed, they all murmured, "Amen."

Athos reached for a slice of bread and the crock of butter to butter it. The crock was then passed to D'Artagnan, who ignored it for the moment.

Aramis was less concerned that his friend. "All we have to do to make a successful exchange is get Louis to leave the ballroom and go into a secluded area, such as his own bedchamber, where we can apprehend him."

"Louis leave the room during a ball?" D'Artagnan asked, apparently thinking the idea was preposterous. "That will not be easily achieved. Louis thrives on the excitement of a dance. I can think of no reason why he would be inclined to leave the room."

"I can think of one," Porthos said. "Make certain he gets plenty to drink, then he will have to leave briefly for personal comfort. He will most certainly be alone for the event, and will be a perfect time for us to apprehend him."

"That is too unpredictable," Aramis said. "We cannot leave it to chance. I have a plan, but you may not like it, D'Artagnan."

D'Artagnan had finally started buttering his bread, but at the priest's ominous comment, the butter knife froze against the slice, and his expression immediately became suspicious. "What do you have in mind?" he asked.

"I have commissioned a trusted blacksmith, a member of our Order, to make three more iron masks; not the entire cage, just the mask. I propose that Athos, Porthos, and myself place them beneath our ball masks and then periodically reveal them to Louis during the dance at inconspicuous moments when he alone will see them. The replicas of his brother's mask are that last things he will expect to see during his ball, and he will think he is going mad! I predict he will retreat to his chamber to steady himself."

"You are right. I don't like it," D'Artagnan said. He pushed the crock of butter to the head of the table. "That is as much to chance as Porthos's suggestion, and I must say, I like his better."

"Thank you, D'Artagnan," Porthos said.

"I admit, it is not foolproof, but it is the best plan we have," Aramis argued. "Louis thinks that he is the only person alive who knows the identity of the man in the mask. The fear that others might know is enough to push him over the edge."

"Or, he may figure out the ruse and expose you as a conspirator. Not to mention the fact that the ballroom will be guarded by Musketeers who may witness the execution of your plan. What happens if one of them should see the masks? Do you not think they will realize that something is amiss?"

"Well, there is that possibility, but I believe this has a good chance for success. We will simply have to be careful."

"Careful about what?" Philippe asked as he stepped into the room.

"Have a seat, Philippe," Aramis said. "We were just discussing our plans for the exchange."

Philippe's mouth was set in a straight line as he moved to the empty chair beside his father, and slowly sank into it.

"Have some bread, Philippe," Athos said.

Philippe shook his head. "I do not think I could eat. My stomach is all twisted up in knots."

D'Artagnan placed a comforting hand on his son's arm. "It is only natural to have second thoughts about this, but you must stand up to them." Withdrawing the hand, he turned to the others. "I will return to the palace tomorrow."

Philippe looked briefly panic-stricken at the thought of being separated from his father so soon after arriving at the estate. "So soon?"

"I want to feel things out at Court, find out what Louis' plans are for the new few days. A better opportunity than the ball may present itself for the exchange. I will get word to you if a situation arises."

Aramis appeared slightly offended that the others had so little appreciation for the plan he felt was brilliant, but he nodded in agreement. "Very well. I am not so proud that I would disregard better alternatives, if one exists." He gestured toward the loaf of bread. "Philippe, you really should try to eat something. It will be a long time before we stop for lunch."

Reluctantly, Philippe picked up a slice of bread and buttered it, but he could only nibble at the food. The butterflies in his stomach were threatening to turn into nausea, and he did not want to embarrass himself in front of the others.

When the entire loaf of bread had been consumed, Aramis stood up from his place at the head of the table.

"Gentlemen, after a lifetime of service to the king, we now embark on the most important mission of our entire lives. At last, we will have a ruler worthy of our loyalty." He raised his glass of cider. "To the king!"

Athos, Porthos, and D'Artagnan all lifted their glasses. "To the king!"

It gave Philippe a strange feeling to watch as the other men toasted him as their new king, and he experienced a mixture of intense pride and extreme self-consciousness. He only hoped he could live up to their expectations.

Aramis returned his glass to the table and walked toward the door. "It is time to leave. I have ordered the servants that all our belongings be placed on the coach while we ate, but Philippe, you must carry this with you at all times until our arrival," he added, reaching for a hooded cloak which he had placed on a peg near the door. "We will make a stop for lunch and another for supper, as it is a very long trip. I have already sent a messenger ahead to expect us, and as we move from the coach to the house, you must make certain that your face is covered to prevent passersby from seeing it, and you must remain covered until we are in the dining room. We will be left completely alone while we eat, then you must cover yourself again as we return to the coach. Likewise, if anyone approaches the coach at any time, you must prevent them from seeing your face. We move into dangerous territory today, my friends. Make certain that your weapons are handy at all times."

The men checked their weapons. Swords were carried in the scabbards at their sides, and musket pistols were concealed in their clothing. When they were ready, they left the house for the last time and moved toward the stable. The horses were hitched to the vehicle, and the coachman was making a final check of the harnesses. The luggage was already strapped to the rear of the coach. The black gelding was tethered to the back of the vehicle.

Athos opened the door, and they filed into it, Athos, Philippe, and D'Artagnan took one seat, while Aramis stepped inside and sat across from Athos. Porthos, however, waited at the door for Angelina, who embraced her parents and each of her sisters and brothers before hurrying toward the coach.

Porthos took her hand and assisted her into the vehicle. She sat down next to Aramis, and the coach tilted slightly as Porthos stepped inside and took his seat beside her. He securely latched the door behind him, and the coach lurched into motion. They were on their way.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

The morning passed slowly for the travelers. The coach swayed and rocked over the imperfections in the dirt road, lulling several of them into a doze only to be jolted awake whenever the wheel bounced on a rut.

They stopped several times to rest the horses and to allow the passengers to get out and stretch their legs, and during one such stop, Athos's eyes fell upon Angelina, scrutinizing her as he had never done before. Always at the house, she had been the cook and housekeeper, even more than her sisters, and he had paid little attention to her presence. But now he noticed her as a possible threat to the new king's security.

After she excused herself from the others and walked into the brushes for a few minutes alone with her personal business, he asked, "How much does she know? She has been working for us for some time; she must surely have picked up the notion that something significant is going on."

They all looked at Porthos, who said, "She had everything figured out pretty quickly." In response to the startled expressions that swept across the faces of his companions, he said, "The walls of that house were not so thick that she could not hear much of what was discussed. With the many surprises that occurred within this house during her working hours and the training of Philippe, it would have been difficult for her not to realize what was happening."

Aramis's expression was harsh. "And what she did not figure out on her own, I am quite certain you were more than willing to fill in the gaps."

"There was very little to fill in," Porthos said in his own defense.

D'Artagnan was startled. "She knows _everything_?"

"She frequently heard Philippe call you 'Father', and she was aware that we were training him for something important. My servants know what the king looks like, and when we reach my estate, they will believe that Philippe is Louis, and will be referring to him as 'His Majesty'. She would have thought that very strange without knowing _why_."

"So you took it upon yourself, without consulting the rest of us, to tell her? Porthos, have you no idea how dangerous this is?" Aramis asked, his voice and face harsh. "Philippe's life and D'Artagnan's are at stake here! This is very serious!"

"She can be trusted completely," Porthos assured them. "She will tell no one of anything that transpired among us. She has not even told her family of the things she knows. They know only that we are leaving for my estate today, and that she will be accompanying me as my personal cook. She has not told a soul, nor will she."

"She had better not," Athos said, quietly stripping the leaves from a fallen twig. "Or I will throttle her myself."

"She is not a threat to us or to D'Artagnan and Philippe," Porthos said firmly. "You have my word on that."

"And mine as well," spoke a feminine voice from the direction of the bushes.

Everyone turned toward her. She had apparently overheard most, if not all, of the conversation.

"Come here, woman," Aramis said, sternly.

She moved to Porthos's side, and he placed a protective arm around her shoulders.

"What do you have to say about this?" the priest asked.

"I assure you, I have no loyalty to Louis. Until we moved to the village, my family and friends suffered great hardship under the rule of the current king. My father lost our farm because Louis confiscated our crops, and we could not pay the taxes that he levied upon us. We were left destitute. After Father joined the Order, we moved to the village, and there we were able to make a living, but there are still so many more who suffer terribly at his hands. I feel honored to be a part of this transition. I have told no one the things I overheard while in your service, nor will I ever." She lifted her gaze to the man she had fallen in love with. "In doing so, I would risk the love of my Porthos, and I could not bear that."

He pressed his lips affectionately against her temple and drew her closer. "I know you would never betray us."

D'Artagnan was shaking his head, gravely concerned. "Too people know of this. With every person, the risk of detection increases."

"What is done cannot be changed," Aramis said, offering an annoying voice of reason that was answered by resentful expressions from the others.

"Obviously," Athos retorted. He dropped the now naked twig back to the ground where he had found it. "However, knowledge of this must go no farther. It has spread too far already. It stops here." He glanced at the priest. "Aramis?"

Understanding the nature of his query, Aramis withdrew his crucifix from beneath his shirt and took Angelina's hand, placing the holy icon on her palm. "Angelina, you must make a solemn vow before God that you will repeat nothing of what you have learned. The fate of the entire country rests upon that vow. Do you understand?"

She met his gaze, and nodded her understanding. "You have my solemn vow that I will never reveal your secrets to anyone."

Porthos placed his hand over hers. "I give my solemn oath as well."

On impulse, Athos placed his hand on Porthos's, followed by D'Artagnan. Aramis placed his hand on top. "We have made a sacred oath between us. Let not one of us break that oath."

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Vedette parted the heavy drapes of the manor house and peered through the slit toward the road, but there was not yet any sign of the coach. It was very late, nearly midnight, and on Margot's orders, she had lit the lanterns outside the doors to welcome their employer home, but she knew as well as the older housekeeper that the real reason was so that he would not trip and fall in case he was in another of his drunken stupors.

Vedette snorted with disgust at the thought of him tripping and falling on his face on the steps. She had little patience for drunks. After all, hadn't her own dear husband literally drunk himself into an early grave? It was only at Margot's request that she had not sought employment elsewhere, along with most of the other servants.

"Any sign of him yet?" Margot asked, startling her out of her thoughts.

Vedette glanced over her shoulder. "No, not yet. Probably stopped for a nightcap at the brothel. Quite frankly, I do not know what the mistress ever saw in him. His behavior is quite repulsive."

Margot gazed at her friend and colleague for a long moment, understanding the sentiments that had been echoed by each of the long-term employees who had gradually drifted away from the famous Musketeer. "He wasn't always like that," she said in her employer's defense. "At one time, he was one of the best Musketeers, and a good employer. He began to fall into ruin when the mistress passed away."

Another stretch of silence followed before Vedette asked quietly, "Do you miss her?"

"All the time. She governed the estate with a firm hand, but she was always fair. And she loved _Monsieur_ Porthos, so we must continue to look after him for her sake. It is what she would have wanted. Now, are the lanterns still burning outside?"

"Yes. And the rooms have been aired out and the beds turned down." She and Margot had been working since the courier arrived, dusting furniture, scrubbing floors, cleaning windows, washing the linens, and airing out the guest rooms.

Margot smoothed down her dress to make herself presentable to her employer. "Very good. Everything is in order for his arrival."

"Who are these people he is bringing with him?"

"You have met Father Aramis, but I do not believe you have met Monsieur Athos or Captain D'Artagnan."

"I have heard of them. That is three guests. His letter said to have five guest rooms prepared. Who are the other two?"

Margot lifted her plump shoulders in a shrug. "No idea, but they must be very important to go to all this trouble." She paused to cock her ear toward the door. "I believe we shall find out shortly. I think I hear the coach coming up the lane."

Vedette parted the drapes again. Sure enough, the large black coach pulled by four black horses was trotting up the lane toward the steps. "There is nothing wrong with your ears!" she said. As her colleague had done, she smoothed down her dress and ran her hand over her hair, making certain that she was presentable. "Ready?" she asked.

"Yes."

Vedette opened the front door, and stepped outside with Margot as the coach stopped near the bottom of the steps. Aramis opened the coach door from the inside and emerged from it first, followed by Athos, D'Artagnan, Porthos, a young woman they had never seen before, and then . . . .

Both women gasped as the final traveler appeared in the doorway. Instantly, both women curtseyed deeply to the well dressed young man who stepped regally from the coach.

"Your Majesty!" Margot said, her voice trembling with nervousness.

Philippe glanced at D'Artagnan, who gave a barely perceptible nod, reminding him that the charade would begin at that moment. The young man squared his shoulders and maintained an imperial posture as he glanced at the women, then turned his attention to the manor as if to scrutinize it.

"Yes, Porthos," he said in an aloof manner. "Your estate shall do nicely for my little hunting expedition. You say the game here is abundant?"

"Most abundant, Your Majesty. Herds of deer, as well as pheasant and hares roam freely on my property."

"Excellent. We shall begin tomorrow."

Porthos gave a slight bow. "Consider my home yours, Your Majesty," he replied. "My best room has been prepared for your use."

"Excellent."

Porthos's footman appeared beside the coach to take charge of the luggage, and he immediately bowed when he saw the young king.

"You may bring our luggage inside, and then summon the groom to help the driver care for the horses," Porthos instructed. "See if you can find a room in the servant's quarters for him."

"Yes, _Monsieur_."

Aramis gestured toward the door. "Shall we go inside, Your Majesty?"

Careful to carry himself erect, Philippe made his way up the stoop and into the foyer, where he stopped to admire the fine tapestries and portraits, but was careful to maintain a neutral expression to hide the fact that he was very impressed with the elaborate manor house that was now owned by the former Musketeer. Never in his entire life had he been inside a house so big or so fine. He knew that everything had formerly belonged to his late wife, but it was still quite an accomplishment, in Philippe's eyes.

"Are you hungry?" Margot asked as she followed them inside. "I could prepare something –"

"We have eaten," Aramis said brusquely. "I think His Majesty simply wishes to retire."

"Yes, I am very tired," Philippe said.

"This way, Your Majesty," Porthos said. "I will see you to your room." To the two housekeepers, he added, "Wait here. I shall have instructions for you." Then he led the way up the stairs and down a long corridor toward a closed door at the end of the hallway. Porthos paused before the door, and his hand lovingly stroked the doorknob before opening it. "My late wife resided in these chambers. I have had no desire to reside here since, but it is the finest area in the house, and should suit your needs perfectly."

Philippe stepped into the room with the complete understanding that this chamber was sacred to the former Musketeer. Just inside the doorway was a small greeting room. Through a second set of doors was the large sitting room, where the baroness had undoubtedly spent many hours reading or playing the harp which still occupied its position in the corner. Chairs and lounges were placed in decorative positions, and a shelf contained books that must have been her favorites. An ornamental desk still contained the writing tablets on which she must have issued orders to the servants.

Porthos opened another set of doors, and Philippe heard him utter a low sigh as he viewed her bedchamber. "She was a good woman," Porthos said, quietly. "I still miss her."

"I will treat her chambers with great respect," Philippe promised.

Porthos placed a large but gentle hand on the younger man's shoulder and squeezed it affectionately. "I know you will. It is good that these rooms will be used again. The maids keep them clean, but other than that they have been shut up ever since . . . Well, I will leave you now to get settled in. If you need anything, anything at all, please do not hesitate asking for it."

"Thank you, Porthos."

With a last longing look at the empty bedchamber, Porthos strode from the room. Athos, Porthos, and Aramis were waiting in the corridor with Angelina. He indicated which room each of them should stay in, then took Angelina by the arm. "Come with me, my dear. I must introduce you to my servants."

The pair walked back down the stairs to the foyer, where Margo and Vedette were waiting. Both women noticed the man's casual step, steady hands, and clear eyes as he approached them with the young woman on his arm.

"Margot and Vedette, my housekeepers, I wish you to meet my fiancée, Mademoiselle Angelina DuLignon."

The introduction shot through the two women like a firebolt, igniting instant objections from both of them that they dared not voice. The exchanged a quick rather hostile glance, which did not go unnoticed by Porthos.

"I know this must be a shock to you both, and I can appreciate how you might think that I am betraying your mistress, for whom you worked long before I came into her life. I have been a lonely man ever since I lost her, and my behavior has been abhorrent. I stand before you a changed man, due largely to this young woman here. It is from her that I found the courage to stop drinking, and I am a much better man for it. I will strive to honor your mistress's memory, while making a new life for myself, and I vow to be a better employer."

Here he paused to allow the two women a chance to speak. They looked at one another again, as if uncertain how to react to this bit of news. Margot decided that now was not the time to vent her opinion on the subject, and decided instead to ask about their surprise guest. "_Monsieur_ Porthos, His Majesty –"

"Yes, I wish I could have forewarned you of his coming, but it was for security's sake that I did not. He wishes to enjoy a few days of hunting and personal solitude, things he cannot obtain at the palace surrounded by his staff, so I suggested that my estate would be a suitable place for him to relax before his grand ball later this week. I was most surprised when he accepted my offer. No one knows that he is here, so we must see to it that no one outside this estate finds out. You must tell no one, is that clear?"

"Yes, _Monsieur_," the two women chimed.

"And make certain that the footman and the groom are aware of it as well. Tonight, if you please. It cannot wait until morning."

"Yes, _Monsieur_," Margot said.

"Now, one final thing. My dear Angelina is the best cook in the country, so she will be taking over the cooking duties."

Margot gasped, as if horrified. "But it is not proper for the mistress of the house to –"

"I do not care what is proper. She enjoys cooking and her cooking pleases me, so that is all there is to it. You may retire now."

The two servant women curtseyed to their employer, then turned and made their way to the servant's quarters. Margot's quiet voice could be heard saying to Vedette, ". . . never heard of such a thing!"

Angelina sighed, heavily. "They hate me."

His arm went protectively around her shoulders. "Not you, my dear. They would have reacted the same regardless who I brought home. They are loyal to my late wife, and they believe that I dishonor her by finding someone new on which to bestow my love."

"But especially someone of common blood."

"My dear, I also have common blood, as you called it. They were not overjoyed when the mistress married me. In fact, I dare say they were quite horrified. But they accepted me, and they shall accept you." He gave her a squeeze. "Come, I will see you back to your room."

Together, they walked back up the stairs.


	22. Chapter Twenty Two

Twenty Two

After breakfast the next morning, on the pretense of taking the king for a hunt on the property and with the others acting as body guards, Porthos set up several targets in a field some distance from the manor house, all of them made of tightly packed straw with which to catch the lead balls that Philippe would be firing at them. The targets, covered in old cloth sacks to hold the straw in place, were of varying sizes to represent different types of game, and were hung by ropes from the limbs of a solitary tree in the middle of the meadow.

"The king uses two types of muskets," Porthos explained to Philippe as he reached into his pouch for a lead ball. "And you must master both of them quickly, so we must work very hard. We will start with the long musket, as this is the best one for the hunt. Louis sometimes carries a pistol for self defense, but he uses a long barrel for hunting, as it allows for greater accuracy."

"Louis does not load his own weapons," D'Artagnan cautioned. "Once his weapon is fired, he passes it to an aid, who reloads for him. When hunting, the aid will have several muskets. While Louis is using one, the aid will be reloading another. But it is still good that you know how it is done, just in case you ever find yourself in a position where it becomes necessary. It is always best to be prepared."

"Does my brother not know how?" Philippe asked.

"He most likely knows how, but it is manual labor, and the king does not do manual labor."

Philippe watched attentively while Porthos stood the musket on its stock and demonstrated the procedure to load the musket. Now that he was sober, his hands were steady and his eyes were clear, and the weapon was quickly and accurately loaded. When it was ready, the former Musketeer hefted the weapon and said, "Better stand back just a bit."

Philippe moved back several steps and watched while Porthos sighted down the long barrel, and pulled the trigger. A large puff of smoke was ejected from the powder, and the report was so loud that Philippe jumped and stumbled backward into Athos, who grasped his arms to steady him. The straw target leaped on the end of its rope as the ball ripped through it.

Porthos laughed, good-naturedly at the young man's jumpiness. "Yes, it is startling the first time you hear it up close, but you will grow accustomed to it." He passed the weapon to him. "Now, you try."

Curious to see the result of the shot, Aramis jogged toward the target to examine the round hole in the cloth wrapping. "Dead center," he announced as he rejoined them. "You are still as good as you ever were."

"Was there any doubt?" Porthos asked, but there was confidence in his voice, not arrogance.

As the smoke from Porthos's shot drifted away, Philippe carefully loaded the musket under the watchful eye of the four friends, then placed the stock against his shoulder as Porthos had showed him, and lifted the barrel. It was heavier than it looked, and it was difficult to hold it steady.

"Why does he hunt?" he asked as he tried to steady the swaying barrel. "He must surely have others to procure food for the palace. He doesn't need to go out and get it for himself."

"Pheasant hunting is considered a manly sport, a gentleman's sport," Aramis explained. "While it is true that many people must hunt to put food on the table, Louis and other royals and nobles engage in the activity simply for pleasure. As for the food on his own table, he has no idea where it comes from, nor does he care."

"The truth is, he does not hunt all that much, these days," D'Artagnan told him. "Four-legged game has been replaced by the two-legged kind, and he seems to find them more appealing. Still, he does occasionally surprise us with a request to locate a suitable place to hunt for game." Noticing that his son was having difficulty keeping the muzzle steady, he suggested, "Move your left hand forward a bit more."

Philippe slid his hand a little farther up the barrel, and it became steadier. "I used to snare rabbits and other small animals for Yvette, and she would cook it for us. But I never used a musket. I do not believe she even owned one."

"Few women own a musket," Athos said. "That is not a surprise."

Porthos used his hand to indicating the sights. "Now, look through this notch and line up your target with the little bead on the muzzle. When you are ready, you squeeze the trigger slowly and gently."

Philippe sighted and squeezed the trigger as instructed, but in anticipation of the report and the puff of smoke, he did exactly what he knew he was not supposed to do: He closed his eyes, thereby losing sight of his target. They instantly popped open again when the stock slammed into his shoulder with more force than he ever would have expected, and it sent him careening backward, while the ball ripped through the treetop, sending a shower of leaves and twigs filtering down through the limbs.

Porthos had clearly been expecting this, and caught him before he would have fallen, laughing heartily. "Oh, did I forget to tell you that it kicks like a mule?"

Philippe was placed back on his feet by the jovial former Musketeer, and rubbed his aching shoulder. "Perhaps it slipped your mind," he said with a trace of sarcasm, knowing that the musket's recoil had not been forgotten at all.

Porthos laughed even harder in reaction to the young man's comment. "Forgive me, Philippe. I should have warned you."

Smiling, D'Artagnan gently massaged his son's shoulder. "Do not take offense, Philippe. I believe that is a private joke among most people when instructing others on how to shoot. My father did not tell me either."

"Nor did mine," Porthos agreed. "I could not resist continuing the tradition."

"I suppose I missed the target," Philippe said.

"Indeed," Aramis told him. "The ball took off some small limbs in the top of the tree. You must keep your eyes open so that you can see what you are aiming at."

"I know. I tried, but they seemed to close of their own power."

"You will control that urge," Porthos told him. "Reload and try again."

Resolutely, Philippe reloaded the musket, sighted once again, and pulled the trigger. Again, his eyes snapped shut, but this time he heard the dull thud as the ball slammed into the tree trunk. Prepared this time for the musket's recoil, he managed to take only a single step backward to maintain his balance.

The four friends looked toward the tree, scrutinizing the small round hole that was bored into the widest part of the trunk. "Well, it was closer than the wild shot in the treetop," Athos said.

"Try again," Porthos ordered.

Reminded of his father's relentless persistence on the day of his first riding lesson, Philippe reloaded the musket and repeated the process. This time, there was absolutely no sound of the bullet striking anything. It had simply vanished.

"Missed," Porthos teased.

Again and again, Philippe loaded and fired, and by the time the pouch was empty of lead balls, he had managed to clip the edge of the target several times.

"Well done, Philippe, well done," Porthos praised.

The soon-to-be king lowered the musket, and slowly rubbed his aching shoulder. "That is harder than I realized. I had a tremendous amount of respect for the Musketeers before, but an even greater one now."

"Your shoulder hurts?" D'Argagnan asked.

Philippe nodded. It ached terribly, but he did not want to complain.

D'Artagnan seemed to understand. "I think you need a break now. We will return to the house to rest." He glanced up at the sky. "It is past lunchtime anyway."

They walked back to the edge of the bluff where they had tethered their horses.

"Will it not look peculiar for us to have been hunting all morning and not bring something back?" Philippe asked. "They must have heard the shots at the house."

"That is why I chose this location to practice," Porthos said. "The bluff is high enough that it blocks the sound. They will not have heard anything at the house, and even if they did, we will simply tell the truth; that we were practicing before embarking on an actual hunt."

"We will need to make some more balls before we go out again," Aramis said, holding up the empty pouch as evidence. "That will take much of the afternoon."

"Then we will go out again tomorrow."

They mounted their horses and rode back to the house, but a few hours after lunch, while Porthos and Athos were pouring lead into the molds to make new musket balls, D'Artagnan requested that the black gelding be brought to him.

"You are leaving so soon?" Philippe asked, disappointed.

"It is time," his father replied. "I must return to the palace and learn what has transpired during my absence. And I must alert your mother that you have been brought safely to Paris."

"I will be glad to see her."

D'Artagnan smiled. "You cannot begin to imagine how eager she is to see you, as well."

Aramis was seated casually on the lounge with his feet propped up. "D'Artagnan, while Porthos and Athos work with Philippe, I will ride over to the residence tomorrow to see what needs to be done to secure it for Louis."

"Good. We need to devise a method of contact, in the event that I discover a better way to make the exchange, or if situations necessitate the changing of our plans."

"I have already seen to that," ARamis replied. "Go to the Cathedral and ask for a priest named Pasquier."

"Pasquier," D'Artagnan repeated, committing the name to memory.

"He is one of my assistants, and very active in the Jesuit order. I have informed him of where I am, and he will get a message to me. Likewise, I will use him if I need to communicate with you."

"I will see you in a few days, then." He stood up and gathered his gear, which he had left at the door in anticipation of his departure.

Philippe stood up. "I will see you out."

Together, father and son walked through the massive corridors toward the front door, passing Vedette, who was on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor. She quickly stood up to curtsey to her king as he passed, and he dipped his head in a brief nod of acknowledgement as they walked by. He was careful to walk erect and poised, and when they reached the door, he waited while D'Artagnan opened the door for him.

"I will see you in a few days, Your majesty," the Musketeer captain said as they stepped through it. He pulled it closed behind him.

The groom was waiting near the stoop with the gelding, and D'Artagnan took the reins from him, and dismissed him with a wave of his hand. The man bowed to Philippe, then hurried away, seemingly very uncomfortable in the presence of his ruler.

The two men then stood facing each other, reluctant to part.

"I would like very much to embrace you, but the risk of being seen is too great," D'Artagnan said, his voice low.

"There will be plenty of time for that later," Philippe promised. "I will miss you."

"It is only for a few days, and then we will be united as a family; you, your mother, and I."

"I look forward to it."

D'Artagnan mounted the horse and gazed down at his son for several moments. "Take care, Your majesty," he said. He placed his fist against his chest, a silent pledge of loyalty. He gathered his reins and cantered a short distance away, then reined in the gelding and whirled around to face the house. He lifted one hand in a wave, then wheeled the horse around and cantered out of sight.

Philippe stood quietly watching the now-empty road that D'Artagnan had taken, unaware that Athos had stepped outside behind him and was watching. The older man could easily see the nervousness in his posture at being separated from his father at such a critical time.

"You must have confidence in yourself, Philippe," he said in his typically quiet voice.

Philippe turned around quickly, surprised to find him there.

The former Musketeer continued, "The blood of D'Artagnan flows through your veins. Draw your strength and your courage from that, and always know that the four of us will be with you."

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Upon reaching the city, D'Artagnan cantered the black horse at a leisurely pace through the streets of Paris. Mounted on a different horse and wearing civilian clothing afforded him anonymity, but the fine steed, his erect posture, and his well-made clothing gave him the appearance of a wealthy noble, and he caught several decidedly unfriendly glances from the poor residents he passed. On impulse, he tossed a few coins to one particularly poor looking woman with five small children, but even as he did, he knew it would not help them much. Picking up the scattered coins, she called after him, "Bless you, Your Lordship!"

When he finally reached the palace gates, he pulled the black gelding to a halt. Recognizing that it had returned home, it reared and took several walking steps on its hind legs, eager to return to its paddock. They presented a magnificent image to anyone who might have been watching, the handsome Musketeer and the spirited horse. D'Artagnan easily maintained his balance, and when the horse's front hooves returned to the ground, he sat still for several minutes observing the richness of the king's palace.

It stood in all its regal splendor, a huge royal residence with many formal rooms, lush gardens, fountains, and other fineries that most people of the country would never witness, while just outside the gates, people lived in squalor and poverty, struggling day to day just to feed and clothe their families. The contrast was nothing short of obscene.

Soon, Philippe would be residing inside that magnificent home, and D'Artagnan experienced a twinge of guilt and regret that he must sacrifice one son in favor of the other. As difficult as it was, there was no turning back. The wheels had been set in motion for the exchange. It was the right thing to do for the country and even for Louis, for he was still convinced that eventually his son would fall to an assassin. With Philippe's sense of right and wrong, he reminded himself that the younger twin would be a better king than his brother had been. It would be difficult for Louis to accept, especially at first, but in the end, he hoped his elder son would accept his fate.

Taking up the reins again, he nudged the horse with his heel, and cantered up the lane toward the palace doors. As he neared, he spotted a young man walking up the steps. The immaculate dress, the erect carriage, and the arrogant demeanor could only be that of Louis. The white stallion favored by the young king was being led away by a Musketeer, and D'Artagnan deduced that Louis was returning from a ride around the property.

Hearing the clatter of hoof beats behind him, the young king turned around and watched as the captain of his Musketeers cantered to the foot of the steps and reined the black horse to a halt.

Instantly, a young Musketeer stepped forward to take the horse. "Welcome back, Captain."

"It is good to be back," he replied, dismounting. He turned the reins over to the Musketeer. "Now I remember why I do not like to travel," he added with a smile as he stretched his legs. "Too many hours in the saddle!"

The young Musketeer smiled nervously in response, unaccustomed to exchanging informal pleasantries with his captain. "Yes sir," he replied. "I know what you mean."

Louis walked arrogantly down the steps to face the captain. "You have been gone longer than I expected. Where were you?"

There was an accusatory tone to his voice that told D'Artagnan that the king was probably thinking about the foiled plot against the Jesuits and the fact that it coincided with his trip. "I traveled to Gascony on a family matter," he replied. "Why? Is something wrong?"

Louis looked him carefully in the eye, as if trying to detect a lie. Unable to find anything in his expression that supported his concerns, he said, "In your absence, another attempt was made on my life."

D'Artagnan's surprise and concern was genuine, a fact which was noticed by Louis. "Another attempt?" After the past two weeks in a casual environment with Philippe, D'Artagnan momentarily forgot his place. Reaching forward, he drew aside the front of Louis' gilded coat, searching for evidence of injuries. "Were you harmed?"

Louis instantly stepped back, offended by his familiarity. "You forget yourself, D'Artagnan," he said sharply.

Effectively admonished, D'Artagnan silently chastised himself for his carelessness as he quickly withdrew the hand and bowed his head, respectfully. "Forgive me, your majesty. It is my concern for your well-being that dictates my behavior. I was out of line."

Satisfied, Louis shook his head. "No, I was not harmed. I was well protected by the Musketeers. You have trained them well."

"Was the perpetrator apprehended?"

"Of course. Lieutenant Andre and several of his men successfully captured the assassin."

"A Jesuit?"

"No. At least he does not appear to have any ties to the Jesuits. This one was a local man, apparently discontent with his current station. He somehow managed to get onto the palace grounds before being spotted. I have ordered him to be executed, but it will be done next week, after the ball. I haven't the time to deal with such matters right now." He shifted his attention to the black horse, and D'Artagnan saw intense admiration on Louis' face as he observed the animal.

Its sleek black coat glistened with sweat, making it appear even darker than it was, but even after the journey from Porthos's estate, its head was carried high, its neck gracefully arched. The wavy mane was long and profuse, falling on both sides of its neck, and its tail was long and thick. He walked slowly around the animal, inspecting it carefully, observing how it turned its eye toward him with alertness.

"I do not recall ever seeing this horse before," he said. "You usually ride a gray, do you not?"

"He is from the Musketeer stables, your majesty, and was included in the last procurement of mounts," D'Artagnan told him as he removed his satchel from the saddle. "My gray is no longer young enough for such a lengthy trip, so I elected to ride one of the unassigned horses."

"You have excellent taste in horses, Captain," Louis said, visibly impressed. "He is very handsome. Very handsome indeed. He must have a great deal of stamina to have made such a long journey."

"Yes, I can vouch for that much myself. He has an excellent temperament also; spirited but easily controlled." Sensing that Louis was interested in the horse on a personal level, D'Artagnan decided to help him along, knowing that it would aid Philippe once he ascended to the throne if Louis had already claimed the horse. "A king would look splendid on a horse such as this," he suggested.

"You read my mind, D'Artagnan," Louis said. "It would be a shame to relegate such a magnificent steed to a Musketeer. I have scheduled a hunt two days from now, and my stallion recoils at the sound of the muskets. Has this one been acclimated to the sounds of musket fire?"

"He has, Sire."

"Excellent. Can he be recovered from the trip by then?"

"In two days? That is the day of your ball, is it not?"

"You have been gone for two weeks, D'Artagnan. How did you know about the ball?"

"Plans were underway before I left, your majesty," D'Artagnan reminded him.

Louis nodded. "Yes, I suppose they were. Indeed, that is the day of the ball, but the hunt will be that morning. I am planning to serve pheasant to my guests in the evening. We shall have quite a feast. My chefs will be busy all afternoon!"

"I will have the groom check him for soundness, but I believe he will be rested enough by then."

"Excellent."

Without another word, the young king turned and strode back up the stairs and into the palace.

D'Artagnan turned to the young Musketeer. "Inform the groom that the king has claimed this horse as a second mount, and that he wishes to ride him on the hunt two days from now. Have the horse examined for soundness, and make certain that he is well groomed."

"Yes, sir."

The Musketeer led the horse away toward the stables to carry out his orders.

Shifting his satchel to the other hand, D'Artagnan climbed the stairs and entered the palace via the front door, which was held open for him by a smartly dressed servant. The foyer that stretched out before him was long and wide, and his footsteps echoed on the polished floor as he made his way toward his quarters.

As he took an adjoining corridor, he saw Anne, partially concealed behind a large round column near the corner. She had apparently been waiting for him to enter, for she beckoned him urgently.

Glancing quickly about to make certain they were alone, he followed her behind the ornamental column.

"I saw you arrive," she said softly, so that her voice would not echo inside the large area. She did not add that she had seen him at the gate when the horse had reared, offering her an impressive image of the man she loved that she would cherish forever. "Is he here?"

He glanced quickly around again, verifying that no one else had entered the corridor. "He is at Porthos's estate outside the city. Athos and Aramis are also with him."

"I prayed that you and the others would have a safe journey. I have been so afraid that something would happen."

He smiled, gently, warmed by her concern for his welfare. "Nothing is going to happen," he assured her. "We have thought this through very carefully. They are making final preparations on their costumes and masks. Aramis wants to bring him inside the palace during the ball, when his face will be covered."

"I saw you speaking with Louis outside. Did he tell you about the assassination attempt?"

"Yes. That, more than anything else, proves to me that we must get Louis off the throne. It was a civilian who made the attempt, apparently someone not associated with the Jesuits. The people hate him, Anne. For his own safety, he must step down. If not, I fear we will lose him."

"I know. I love my son, D'Artagnan. I do not want harm to come to him, on the throne or off."

He caressed her soft cheek with his fingertips. "Do not worry, Anne. All will be well, as Aramis says. I will look after both of them to see that no harm comes to either of them. Trust me on that."

"I do trust you," she assured him.

He glanced about the corridor again, then leaned forward and gave her a quick kiss on the lips. He would have preferred a longer, more leisurely kiss, but it was too risky. ""Meet me at midnight in the chapel. There are things we need to discuss." Lowering his voice to a whisper, he said, "I love you."

"I love you, too," she responded.

Leaving her, he strode toward his room, passing the guard who stood rigidly at attention at the head of the corridor that lead to the private residences of the royal family. The guard was not allowed to move, but D'Artagnan saw him avert his eyes briefly in acknowledgement of the much-revered captain.

The door to his quarters was open, as it usually was during the day, so he went directly inside. His private quarters served as both his office and his bedroom, with the bed concealed by heavy draperies during the day. The drapes were still closed, just as he had left them, and the desk which sat in front of it was also exactly as he had left it.

Lieutenant Andre had been left in charge of the everyday duties of the captain, and he was there when D'Artagnan entered, signing requisition forms, but in his respect for his captain, he was clearly reluctant to use the desk. Instead, he had moved some of the military accoutrements from the table against the wall, and was seated behind it, using it as a desk. He looked up when he heard footsteps enter the room.

He instantly leaped to his feet. "Captain! Welcome back!" He glanced quickly at displaced items on the table. "I hope you don't mind that I moved things around a bit. I needed a place to work."

"No, not at all," he replied. Without opening the barrier that concealed his private area from his subordinates, he reached through the slit where the drapes met in the center, and tossed the satchel on his bed. Then he unfastened his cloak, and removed it. It was hung on a peg on the wall behind the door. "I understand you averted another assassination attempt."

"Yes, Captain. It happened three days ago. A civilian somehow managed to gain access to the property after dark, since it is easier to conceal oneself in the shadows."

"After the gates were locked?" D'Artagnan asked. "Were they not properly latched?"

"They were latched. We believe he gained access at the rear of the property, and approached the palace, where he found an open window and simply crawled in. I saw him hiding behind one of the columns and sounded the alarm. He never got near the king, but he had a musket pistol, so his intent was quite clear. He surrendered without incident."

D'Artagnan was greatly troubled by this. "We must double our security efforts at the masked ball," he instructed. "That was a little too close. You did an excellent job, Lieutenant. I am pleased that the king was left in such capable hands."

Andre felt his cheeks warm at the praise from his commanding officer, the man he had strived to be like his entire life. "I appreciate your faith in me, Captain."

D'Artagnan began unbuttoning his coat, prompting Andre to begin gathering up his papers, believing that was the signal for him to leave.

"I spoke with the king when I arrived," D'Artagnan said as he slipped off the coat and hung it with the cloak. "He informed me that he has scheduled a hunt two days from now, the day of the ball in fact."

"Yes Captain," Andre replied.

"After that assassination attempt, we must be extra cautious. Has he informed you where the hunt will take place?"

"No, Captain, he seems to be keeping that information to himself, at least for the moment."

"I will speak to him tomorrow. I will require a map of the area, so that I can work on positioning the Musketeers."

"Yes, Captain. Once we know where it is, I will see about securing a map." He picked up his papers. "I will leave you alone, now. I'm sure you want to rest after your long journey."

"Close the door on your way out," D'Artagnan said.

Andre slipped through the door and pulled it closed behind him, leaving the tired captain alone.

With a sigh, D'Artagnan pulled open the drapes that concealed his bed, and dropped the satchel down on the floor beside it. Then he stretched out full length on the bed to rest.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

At midnight, D'Artagnan, dressed once again in uniform, opened the door to his chamber and stepped into the corridor. It was dimly lit by several candles mounted on wall sconces, and in the flickering light, he made his way to the head of the corridor and passed beneath the entryway. Two guards stood at rigid attention on either side, protecting the access to the royal chambers, but they ignored him as he walked toward the palace entrance. It was not unusual for him to come and go at any hour of the day or night in the service of the king, and they were accustomed to his occasional late-night tour of the grounds.

Once outside, he made his way along the path toward the chapel with the moon lighting his way. It was a beautiful night with stars shining brightly overhead. Inwardly, he wished that circumstances were such that he and Anne could openly share a private walk in the starlight, but in the critical situation in which they had found themselves, he did not have time to dwell on such luxury, so he forced those thoughts to the back of his mind and concentrated on the matter at hand; eliminating complications that might present a problem to Philippe once he assumed the throne.

As was his habit, his alert blue eyes were constantly moving, darting toward each shadow in search of anything that might be threatening to him or to the residents of the palace, but his search turned up nothing of concern.

When he reached the door to the chapel, he paused to scrutinize the surrounding area once more, but the night was quiet and peaceful. It seemed that only he and Anne and the palace guards remained awake. Grasping the door handle, he opened it and stepped inside.

The interior of the structure was lit by a single candle burning on one of the pedestals, but he did not immediately see Anne. Quietly, he closed the door to wait.

"Is it you?" asked a feminine voice from the shadows near the confessionals. He recognized the voice immediately, and understood that her generic query was offered in case the priest or an assistant had entered, so that he would not be identified as the person she was expecting.

"Yes, it is I," he replied.

She stepped from the shadows, and moved toward him. Dressed in a dark gown with her long hair loose and tumbling down her back, she was the vision of his most intimate dreams.

"Are we alone?" he asked.

"Yes. I lit a candle and checked the confessionals, but no one else is here."

He met her halfway, and they clasped hands as their eyes locked. A moment later, their lips met in a longer kiss than the brief one they had shared in the corridor. When they separated, she leaned against him and rested her head on his shoulder, content to be in his arms.

"For so many years, I have longed to feel your arms around me," she confessed as her own arms went around his waist, holding herself against him as if she might never have the opportunity to embrace him again.

He rested his cheek against her hair, stroking the shimmering length of it with his hand. "As have I," he agreed. "Often, I have wondered if you still felt the same way as I. Sometimes, I would see you at your window, but you would immediately move away."

"I so desperately wanted to see you, but I feared you or someone else would see into my heart whenever I looked at you," she explained. "So when you noticed that I was watching, I would flee." Tears welled in her eyes. "Oh, D'Artagnan! Why has fate been so cruel to us? I never wanted to marry Louis, but if I had not married him, I never would have known you, the love of my life. And now my husband is dead; I am a widow, yet still we cannot be together!"

He heard the tears in her voice, and it tore at his heart. "Perhaps we cannot be together in the way we would like, but knowing that you love me as I love you lifts my heart in ways I cannot describe. I, too, long for what can never be."

An owl hooted outside the chapel, making both of them start, and they looked quickly toward the door as they broke their embrace, reminded that the risk of being discovered was always imminent.

He sighed heavily with the hopelessness of their situation. "We mustn't linger too long here. If your attendant should awaken and find you gone, she might come looking for you."

She nodded and brushed a hand quickly across her cheek to remove the wetness that had spilled from her eyes. "I know, but I am so grateful for any moment that I can share with you that it is worth the risk."

"Anne, I have a concern that requires your attention. We have reached a critical point in our objective, and there are potential obstacles that must be cleared for Philippe's safety. I must ask about Francois, Louis' valet. I fear that when Philippe takes the throne, this man may be a serious threat, for he knows many of the intimate details of the king, and he, more than anyone else, may notice differences."

"This is true," she agreed. "Francois helps dress him. Should he be dismissed?"

"He has done a good job for the king, and it would raise suspicions if he were to be suddenly terminated from his position. I was thinking perhaps a promotion could be offered, something of higher standing, and then bring in a new valet to the king. Are there openings within the palace that might accommodate him?"

"No. All positions are currently filled."

"Then perhaps a new position could be created for him."

She shook her head. "I know of no position that could be created for him. You must understand, I am not involved in any aspect of governing the country."

"I know, but you were raised in the Court, and I had hoped you might offer some suggestions on what we might do with this man."

She shook her head again, worry evident in her eyes. "I can think of nothing. This will be dangerous for Philippe, will it not? Will this change your plans?"

"We cannot alter the plans unless absolutely necessary. Francois will have to be dealt with in some way." He paused, briefly. "I know you have not seen the twins since they were born, but at that time, did you notice any differences between them? Any birthmarks? Anything odd that Francois would focus on?"

"I only saw him for a few moments right after he was born. They took him away, and I never saw him again. I am sorry. I wish I could be of more help ---"

He waved away her apology. "No, it was not your fault that your child was taken from you. What of Louis? Does he have any unusual identifying marks?"

"No, none that I am aware of. You probably see more of him than I do, and I have yet to see Philippe, so you are probably more familiar with both of them than I. However, to know private details about the king, he would have to be looking very closely, and I doubt that Louis would permit him to openly stare at him in such a way."

He stroked his mustache, thoughtfully. "Perhaps I am worrying too much about this. I have heard it said that when you stand twins side by side, you will notices differences, but if you separate them, it is almost impossible to tell which is which unless you are familiar with both. It is possible, if he and Philippe are similar enough, that Francois may not notice anything different between them. They look more alike than most sets of twins that I have encountered."

"If he did notice that something was different, what do you suppose he would do?"

D'Artagnan shrugged. "Well, since I am head bodyguard, it is probable that he would come to me if he suspected anything amiss."

"But why would he suspect anything?" she asked. "He does not know that Louis has a twin brother."

"That is true. Anything he might observe could be passed off as something he simply had not noticed before." He gently brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead with his fingertip and smiled. "Thank you, Anne. You have eased my mind considerably. But now, you must return. I will watch from the door to make sure you get there safely."

They kissed again, then she opened the door to the chapel and set out into the night. He watched from the door until she reached the palace, then decided it might appear suspicious if he went inside right behind her, so he turned toward the stable to check on his gray stallion.

He had been to the stable many times over the years, but somehow it had a different feel to it at night. The horses had settled, and occasionally he heard the stamping of a hoof or the swishing of a long tail breaking the silence. He was a bit surprised to find a lantern burning inside the long livestock building, but the sound of voices from the far corner indicated that someone else was checking on a faithful friend, so he stepped inside and approached the stall in which his stallion was kept.

The animal was lying down on its belly, its legs folded beneath, but when it saw him it uttered a low nicker of greeting and scrambled noisily to its feet and shook the straw from its coat.

"Hello, my friend," said to the horse. "It has been a few weeks."

The stallion nuzzled his sleeve as if to express its affection for him then, as stallions will, it nipped his arm.

"That was not a nice thing to do!" D'Artagnan scolded, rubbing the arm with his other hand. "I know you are happy to see me, so why do you greet me by biting me? I will have a bruise there!"

The stallion tossed its heavy gray mane and snorted. D'Artagnan ran his hand along the warmth beneath the mane, fondly stroking the finely arched neck, unaware for a moment that he was being watched. When he realized that he was not alone, he turned to see that Lieutenant Andre had apparently been watching for several minutes, for his lips were turned up in a smile.

"Forgive me, Captain," he apologized. "It is not every day that I get to see my commanding officer playing with his horse."

"You are up late," D'Artagnan said.

"I was having trouble sleeping, so I decided to come outside to check on the horses." He jerked his head toward the rear stalls. "One of the men is here also; his horse is a bit colicky, so he will remain until he is confident that it will survive. It would appear that you were having difficulty sleeping as well."

"Sometimes, I just like to walk outside at night. It is quiet and peaceful, a good time to be alone and think."

"Yes, it is," Andre agreed, unaccustomed to making small-talk with his commanding officer.

"Andre, the Musketeers must be at their best for the hunt and the ball. Have the men on the parade ground at eight o'clock in the morning. I want to drill with muskets and swords."

Andre gave a slight nod of acknowledgement. "It will be done, Captain. I had better retire. Good night."

"Good night."

After Andre had left for his chamber, D'Artagnan lingered for several minutes with his horse, his mind too active to think about sleep, for the events that would transpire over the next two days would determine the fate of the country.


	23. Chapter Twenty Three

Twenty Three

Shortly after dawn the next morning, D'Artagnan assembled the men in the Musketeers' yard to work on musket drills and sword practice as he prepared the men to guard the king during his hunt. Most important, in his opinion, were the musket drills, especially in the aftermath of the latest attempt on Louis' life. Individual shots were practiced as well as collective volleys, and the air was filled with the sound of musket fire, drawing startled glances from travelers passing by the area.

In addition to the surrounding community, everyone inside the palace was aware of the popping of muskets, and many a maid jumped in fright whenever a volley was released. Even Louis fumbled his fork during breakfast in reaction to one of the startling barrages, sending it clattering onto his plate, and at the same moment one of the young maids gasped in fright and dropped a serving platter directly behind him, adding to his alarm.

He whirled around in his chair with a reproachful glare, and she shrank to the floor in fear. "Forgive me, your majesty!" she pleaded. "I did not mean to drop it! I was so startled by the guns!"

Ignoring the frightened girl's pleas, he turned to Claude, his senior advisor, and demanded, "What is going on out there?"

Standing just inside the door with a stack of parchments requiring the king's signature in hand, Claude stepped forward with a bow. "It is the Musketeers, your majesty. Captain D'Artagnan is conducting a special practice session. The hunt is coming up tomorrow, and he wants to make certain that the men are in top form to protect you."

The scowl on Louis' brow deepened. Although it was a legitimate concern, practicing so close to the palace grounds was rarely performed because of the resulting noise level. "I wish he would locate a more suitable place for them to practice," he complained. Turning back to the maid who was still kneeling on the floor, he said, "Clean that mess up, and then find something else to do until the practice if over. I do not want you or any other others to destroy anything."

"Yes, your majesty," she said as she began picking up the dropped items as quietly as she could.

Another abrupt volley made her jump, and she nearly dropped the item she had just picked up again. Louis was a demanding employer under the best of circumstances, but the noise coming from the Musketeers' yard was making him noticeably irritable. She returned all the fallen items to the platter, and hastily removed them and herself from the dining hall.

Louis picked up his fork again, intending to resume his meal. Claude backed up to the wall again to patiently wait until his monarch had completed his breakfast before presenting the documents to him. Another volley shattered the momentary quiet, and the senior advisor cringed. Beside him, the senior server pressed a hand to his temple, as if nursing a throbbing headache.

"It sounds like a battle going on out there!" Louis complained. He was growing immensely weary of the startling noises that continued to resound throughout the palace, and with great annoyance, he pushed back his chair and stood up. "It is impossible to enjoy my meal with all that noise. Send something to my chamber later." Leaving the table, he brushed past his advisor as the dining room staff hurried to clear the table.

With Claude trotting along behind, urging him to sign the documents, Louis made his way through the corridors toward the window closest to the Musketeers' barracks where he could observe the training maneuvers and see for himself that the inconvenience to him was achieving a goal. He was surprised to find his mother already there, watching them.

"Mother?" he asked as he approached, drawing an unusually startled glance from her. Unaware of the true nature of her uneasiness, he passed off her discomfort as a result of the musket fire, never realizing that her interest was with one man in particular. "Are the muskets disturbing you?"

"If the practice is to protect my son from harm, then I will gladly tolerate the noise," she replied.

Louis moved closer to the window and watched as the men reloaded their weapons with speed and efficiency. Aiming at the targets, they fired another volley. The sound was much louder at the window, and Claude, who was terrified of guns, nearly jumped right out of his skin, necessitating the readjustment of his curly gray wig.

Louis laughed delightedly at his advisor's distress. "A bit jumpy there, Claude?"

"Please, your majesty, we must get these documents signed," Claude pleaded, eager to be away from that window. "They must go out this morning."

Louis raised his hand to silence him, his attention directed at the target at which the Musketeers had just fired. The lead balls had ripped it to shreds. "They are quite good," he remarked. "Very accurate. See how the center of the target is virtually destroyed, while the outer edge of it remains intact?"

"They are the very best, your majesty. Forgive me, Sire, but these documents are quite important."

Louis did not answer, his gaze settling on the Musketeer captain who walked among his troops through the drifting powder smoke, giving directions to the men that could not be heard inside the palace. It seemed that the musket practice was finally over, for the men lowered their weapons and stood rigidly at attention. D'Artagnan was clearly a born leader, and their awe and respect for him was palpable, even from the distance. "He is an outstanding leader, wouldn't you agree?"

"He is a legend," Claude agreed. "Respected by everyone. Indeed, he was the only choice to lead the Musketeers." He indicated the unsigned documents once again. "Sire, I beg you."

With the exercise over, Louis quickly lost interest. "Very well," he responded. "Come with me, and we will sign your important documents." Turning, he strode down the corridor with the faithful advisor on his heels.

As the two men's footfalls faded away, Anne turned her attention back to the men on the parade ground, her eyes settling once again on D'Artagnan. As if aware that he was being watched, he turned and looked directly at the window. Instantly, he froze, his gaze fixed upon her beauty. She was framed there, almost like a portrait, and he could not suppress the slight smile that formed on his lips. She smiled in response, then turned away from the window.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

After lunch, D'Artagnan ordered all the men to carefully clean and check their weapons in preparation for the king's hunt. He then withdrew to his desk to go over requisitions and orders that had occurred during his absence, applying his approval to those which were required, and reviewing those which Lieutenant Andre had approved. Eventually, he became aware of a presence, and looked up to find Louis standing in the doorway watching him, intently.

Laying down his quill on the document he was reviewing, the captain immediately rose to his feet, and waited for the king to reveal the purpose for the visit.

Now that he had been seen and the appropriate reaction attained, Louis stepped inside and approached the desk. "D'Artagnan. I, and everyone in the palace, heard you drilling the men with the muskets this morning." His words and tone of voice were mildly reproachful.

"I hope we did not disturb you, your majesty," he replied. "With the hunt scheduled for tomorrow morning, I wanted to make certain that every man's marksmanship is at its highest level. We cannot be too careful."

"I can appreciate that, but it did indeed disturb my breakfast. And I understand and fully appreciate your dedication to protecting your king. However, since the servants are inclined to drop things when startled, it might be advisable to find a place away from the palace during your next such practice."

"As you wish, Sire, but in this case the practice was held on the grounds intentionally as a demonstration of our firepower to the general public. It is my hope that exhibiting our strength might help to discourage anyone who might be nearby watching and who might be inclined to consider harming you."

Louis had not considered this, but he was aware that the public passed before the gates at all hours of the day, and any one of them could be plotting against him, looking for weaknesses that could be utilized to their advantage. "Very clever," he said, approvingly. "Practicing in close proximity to the palace, where you are certain to be seen and heard by others. You continue to impress me with your cunning."

D'Artagnan shrugged away the rare compliment. "Sire, I have been intending to ask where you plan to hunt, so that I might send some men over there beforehand to secure the area."

Louis folded his arms across the gilded embroidery on his chest with a mild scowl. "D'Artagnan, I do not want to be surrounded by a platoon of Musketeers during my hunt! I am adamant about this, for they will scare away all the game."

D'Artagnan bit back the reply that he wanted to make, reminding himself that this was Louis, not Philippe, and that he could not be as straightforward in his objections. All he could do was attempt to reason with him. "Your majesty, my duty is to protect you at all times, and I cannot adequately do this without making certain that the areas you intend to visit are prepared for your arrival."

"As I said before, your dedication is admirable, but I must be provided ample room to enjoy my recreation," he insisted. "I do not leave the palace grounds very often these days for leisure activities. It is the wish of your king that his hunt is not disturbed by platoons of Musketeers running all over the property searching for phantoms."

D'Artagnan was growing as impatient with the conversation as Louis, but unlike the young king, he was not permitted to express it. However, there was a trace of offense in his voice when he said, "Your majesty, neither I nor my men are in the habit of chasing phantoms. Threats to your life must be taken very seriously, and our purpose is to prevent anyone or anything from bringing harm to you."

"And you have done an admirable job, but I expect you to do it discreetly and in such a way that it will not disturb the game. To answer your question, I have received a gracious invitation from Regnault LaCroix to use his property for my hunt. He claims that his estate is home to some of the largest pheasants in France, and I intend to find out if he is speaking truthfully or if he is simply a braggart. I am hoping for the former," he added with a smile. "I have not enjoyed a good hunt in some time."

D'Artagnan felt a twinge of concern that was carefully concealed. LaCroix was Porthos's nearest neighbor, and the unfenced portions of their properties bordered each other. It would be a devastating blow to their cause if someone should stay too near Porthos's estate and encounter Philippe there.

While he kept his face expressionless, something must have flickered in his eyes, for Louis gave a knowing nod. "Yes, it is near the estate of your old friend Porthos, is it not?"

"It is, your majesty." Casually, he picked up the quill he had placed on the desk top and returned it to its holder. "Has there been any word of him during my absence?"

"No, there hasn't." He was watching D'Artagnan closely for reaction, but saw no indication of uneasiness in the older man's countenance. "I am a bit surprised that you have not inquired about him before now."

"I have been back less than twenty four hours, your majesty." He gestured toward the rather cluttered desk. "Lieutenant Andre has done an excellent job covering my desk during my absence, but there is still much work to catch up on in addition to preparing the men for your hunt. I have had little time to think of other things."

Louis' eyes fell to the papers on the desk. "Yes, so there has. I sent Lieutenant Andre out to Porthos's estate last week to inquire whether his servants had been in contact with him. He reported that they had not. He also indicated that they appear to have a distinct lack of respect for him, and he was quite certain that they answered truthfully. Curious that his servants think so little of him, but then I am told he is a drunk." He observed the captain's face carefully, searching for any indication that he might be concealing the whereabouts of the three former Musketeers, but saw nothing that aroused suspicion. "I have not forgotten that your friend Athos made an attempt on my life. I know that he is your friend, but I still want him apprehended, as well as the others, and brought in for interrogation."

"Yes, your majesty," D'Artagnan replied.

Louis moved closer and lowered his voice, cryptically. "What are they up to, D'Artagnan? Why have all three of them disappeared together? You know them better than anyone else. What is your best guess?"

The captain's gaze did not falter. "Well, I cannot say for sure, but were I to wager a guess, I would say that Aramis and Porthos have most likely removed Athos from Paris and have taken him someplace where he might grieve for his son in private, and where they might help him overcome the blame he feels toward you."

Louis nodded slowly, considering the captain's words carefully. The notion that the other two might have escorted Athos out of the city was something he had not considered. "Then you believe they are not a threat to me. That they are instead working in my behalf. Perhaps even protecting me from Athos."

"If this is what they are doing, then their intent would be to protect Athos from the consequences of his behavior," D'Artagnan told him truthfully. "They would not wish to see him executed for assassinating the king."

Louis paused to consider the scenario that the captain was presenting, and found it plausible. "Perhaps you are right, D'Artagnan. I sincerely hope that you are, because if you are wrong and he makes another attempt on my life, I will order him to be executed on the spot. There will be no leniency the next time."

D'Artagnan looked away. The thought of his closest friend being executed was too painful to even contemplate.

The king fell silent for several moments, observing the Musketeer's silent response to his declaration regarding the fate of Athos should he again step over the boundary of acceptable behavior. He found himself wondering where D'Artagnan's loyalty would ultimately lie should the event come to pass. "Do you understand, D'Artagnan?"

He looked up quickly, his eyes meeting those of Louis; eyes that were hard and cold, so different from those of his brother. "I understand, your majesty."

"Good. Now, I wish you to go to the Cathedral and see if they have heard from Father Aramis. I had sent him on a mission prior to the incident with Athos, and I would very much like to know his whereabouts, and if he has obtained the information I requested. The priests have been less than cooperative with the Musketeers I sent to inquire where he has been. Perhaps you, his friend, will be able to obtain information from the priests that the others were not."

D'Artagnan knew all about the mission to locate and kill the leader of the Jesuit Order, for Aramis had told him and the others about it that night in the crypt when he had first revealed that he had a plan to replace Louis. That had been the night he had rejected the idea of betraying his king, declaration which had added fuel to flames of Athos's wrath.

"I will do my best," he replied.

"I will leave you to your work, then. Ease your mind, D'Artagnan. I have purposefully kept the location of my hunt a secret until this moment, so I believe the risk to my life will be minimal. Only you, LaCroix and myself are at this moment aware of it. Remember, I intend to enjoy my hunt without interference from your men." Turning, he strode from the room.

D'Artagnan let out the breath he had been holding, and sank wearily onto his chair again, hoping that their plans did not unravel because of Louis' unfortunate choice of a hunting venue. The close proximity of Porthos's estate would be particularly dangerous for Philippe, for if a musket lesson was planned for the day of the hunt, his men would investigate the sounds of gunfire. He had no choice but to warn them, and Louis had unwittingly made it easy for him to ride to the Cathedral without inciting suspicion.

Removing a blank sheet of parchment from the desk, he dipped his quill in the ink well again and quickly wrote a message to Aramis, relaying the news he had just been told. He signed it with a simple "D", and folded it. Taking up his sealing wax, he held it over the flame of the candle and allowed it to drip onto the flap, but as he picked up his seal to apply it to the wax, he hesitated. His seal was well known, and it would be incriminating if it should fall into the wrong hands. Turning the seal over, he pressed the smooth handle into the wax to distribute it evenly over the edge of the flap without leaving the imprint of his personal seal.

He tucked the letter into his pocket as he strode from the room, and ordered that his horse be brought to the entrance. Mounted once again on the back of his fine stallion, he rode at a brisk canter toward the cathedral.

As usual, the poor and afflicted of the community were gathered near the steps of the cathedral for the small bits of food and medicine that the priests handed out to aid their survival. As he rode up to the foot of the steps and dismounted, he turned a wary eye on the small gathering of people. They watched him with decidedly unfriendly gazes as he tied the stallion to a post and trotted up the steps.

He respectfully removed his plumed hat as he entered the cathedral, and paused to look around searching for someone who might assist him. There were several priests conducting various manners of business, their voices echoing slightly in the cavernous room, but he noticed quickly that one of them seemed to be watching him, so he focused on this particular man, waiting to see if he would assist him. At last, the priest concluded his business, and approached him.

"May I be of assistance to you, _Monsieur_?"

"I would like to have a word with the priest, Pasquier."

The priest discretely glanced on either side to assure himself that no one else was near enough to overhear. "You are D'Artagnan?" he asked, quietly.

He nodded.

"Come with me."

The priest turned on his heel and strode briskly the opposite direction. D'Artagnan followed, his long stride easily keeping pace with that of the priest, but he had been surprised by the immediate response to his name. Clearly, he had been expected.

The priest led the Musketeer through a maze of corridors that wound their way through the structure. D'Artagnan followed, but he placed his hand on the hilt of his sword as a precaution. The priest finally stopped outside a door and looked up and down the corridor before opening it. He beckoned the Musketeer to follow him into the small bedchamber, then closed the door securely behind him. When he turned to face D'Artagnan, he found the Musketeer looking at him warily.

"We will not be overheard here," the priest explained. "I thought it was you when I saw your manner of dress; that of a high ranking Musketeer. Please forgive the secrecy, but Father Aramis instructed me to be on the lookout for you. He says you are a friend of the Order, and that I should assist you any way that I can. I am Pasquier. What can I do for you?"

D'Artagnan hesitated. Even though all indications were that this man was the priest Aramis had instructed him to see, his natural instinct was to be cautious. "How do I know that you are who you say you are?"

The priest did not seem offended. "It appears we must trust one another, for I am at risk also. You could be someone pretending to be the captain, trying to learn the identity of the Jesuit general."

"I could, but I am not."

Pasquier smiled, as if amused. "I am certain that you are who you say you are, just as I am who I say I am, and we both wish to protect our mutual friend."

D'Artagnan responded with a smile of his own, satisfied that the priest was not an imposter. "It is urgent that I get a message to him. He said you would act as liaison."

The priest nodded. "I have been instructed to deliver any message personally to him to keep it from falling into unfriendly hands. What is the message?"

D'Artagnan removed the letter from his pocket and passed it to the priest, who immediately transferred it to an inner pocket of his cassock.

Catching the captain's curious eye, he explained, "I will be traveling as a simple, poor priest offering guidance to those unable to join us for services. No one will know that I am a courier, and no one will bother me because they will know I have no money."

"You saw me when I entered. It seemed that you were expecting me."

"Indeed, Captain. He instructed me to be ready to leave at a moment's notice should you come to me. I will leave at once. Come; I will see you out."

The two men retraced their steps back to the front door of the cathedral, and they made their way down the steps. As D'Artagnan took the reins of the stallion, the priest went to a rather scruffy looking mule that was tethered in a shaded spot nearby and mounted it. After a brief glance, Pasquier turned the mule toward the road which led to Porthos's estate. D'Artagnan watched him for a moment, then cantered back to the palace.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Do you think this plan of Aramis's will work?" Porthos asked quietly as he nibbled on one of the delicious pastries that Angelina had prepared for them.

Athos, Porthos, and Philippe were seated in his study with the doors closed against intruders, but they were gathered at the far wall, conversing in quiet tones to avoid being overheard by the few remaining servants. While Porthos and Philippe devoured the pastries, Athos sat by himself near the window, gazing outside at the gently rolling green landscape.

"Well," Athos replied. "Slipping Philippe inside during a masked ball is an excellent idea since everyone's faces will be covered, but I think is risky to assume that Louis will leave the ball when he sees the replicas of the iron mask that Philippe was forced to wear. Louis is not known for being feint of heart."

"So how do you think we should handle this? Everything hinges on Louis leaving the ball so that we can apprehend him."

Athos shook his head, slowly. "I don't know. This is not going to be quite as easy as Aramis thinks, since the king is rarely alone. Even if he does leave the ball, there is no guarantee that a servant or a Musketeer will not follow him. I just hope ---."

The door opened and Aramis strode inside looking very pleased. "I have just returned from the estate of the king's late cousin, and D'Artagnan is correct. It is a suitable place to contain Louis once it has been renovated. The courtyard is very large, large enough to accommodate small gardens with which he might occupy his time, and it already has very high walls around it. It will only require sealing off the gate to make it completely secure."

"You do not think he can get over it?" Athos asked.

"It is the height of two tall men standing one on the other's shoulders, and is smooth with no footholds or handholds. It would require a ladder to get over it. I also broke through a window to gain access to the interior, and found a very nice suite of rooms on the second floor that will do nicely. I will have bars placed on the windows to prevent him from getting out. I am considering having a private stairway installed leading directly to the courtyard, so that he will not be taken through the rest of the house when he wants to go outside. That will provide less opportunity to escape."

Athos nodded, approvingly. "Good idea." He gestured toward a wooden crate on the floor near the hearth. "A box came for you while you were gone."

Aramis cocked his head slightly as he looked at the crate, noticing that it was nailed shut. "Do you have anything I can pry this open with?" he asked.

Porthos pointed to the hearth. "Try one of the pokers."

Seizing one of the heavy iron pokers, he managed to wedge it under the lid and pried it off. "Ah!" he exclaimed, pleased. Nestled in a bed of straw were three replicas of the iron mask that Philippe had worn. "Excellent. It is our masks."

Philippe looked at the gruesome looking items, and could not suppress a shudder of revulsion; revulsion that he had worn the mask for years and revulsion that his brother must now wear it.

Athos leaned forward and picked up one of the ghastly items, turning it in his hand to examine it with solemn eyes. It did not seem so very long ago that they had removed the original from the head of the young man who sat across the room from him. "I am not convinced that this will work," he said.

"Of course it will work!" the priest replied with confidence. "I have been planning all our moves since we began this little adventure, and everything has worked out so far, has it not?"

"It has, but this is different. This is leaving too much to chance. Other people do not always do what you expect them to, and I have serious doubts that Louis will be as predictable as you think he will."

"Louis believes his brother to be dead, the body burned beyond recognition and the charred mask sent to him as proof of his death. At the ball, he will likely have been drinking, and between the alcohol and the excitement of the dancing, I am quite certain he will believe the spirit of his dead brother has come back to haunt him."

Athos was shaking his head slowly, as if in disagreement.

"You do not agree?"

"I am still not convinced that it will progress as you have predicted," Athos replied. "All I am saying is that we need to have a backup plan in case the first one does not go the way you expect. We only have one shot at this; we must be prepared for anything and everything."

Porthos was nodding his head in agreement. "Athos is right. There must be an alternative plan, just in case." He reached for another pastry.

"I haven't noticed either of you coming up with one of those alternative plans," the priest challenged. He paused to take a deep breath, calming himself after his initial feelings of offense, and noticed the platter of pastries. "What is that you are eating?"

"Angelina made them," Porthos said. He picked up the platter and extended it toward him. "Have one?"

Aramis reached for one of them and sampled it. "This is delicious," he said, approvingly. After a moment, he conceded, "Well, I suppose you are right. Perhaps it would be wise to have an alternative, just in case."

A knock at the door interrupted the conversation, and Aramis quickly gathered up the masks and returned them to the box and placed the lid on it.

"Enter," Porthos said.

Margot opened the door and stepped just inside. "Pardon me, but there is a priest here to see Father Aramis. He says his name is Pasquier."

Aramis exchanged a quick glance with Athos and Porthos. "Show him in, please."

Margot curtseyed, and returned to the entry hall to retrieve the visitor.

Aramis turned to Philippe. "I think it best that you hide. Pasquier is a member of the Order, but he does not know that the king has a twin brother, so it would give him quite a turn to see you here."

Porthos rose from his chair and led the way to an adjoining door. "You can hide in here."

He opened the door and Philippe stepped into the dark, shadowy room. In the meager light that filtered through the closed shutters, he could see the fine fabrics and carefully hewn wood of the furniture and the delicate glassware that decorated it. It was definitely a woman's room.

"It was my wife's parlor," he told him, sadly. "She loved to sit in here and read. When the shutters are open it is very light and cheerful, but to me . . . to me it is no longer cheerful."

The door to the study opened, and Margot escorted Pasquier into it. Porthos closed the parlor door and made his way back to his chair as Aramis stepped forward to greet the courier. "You have a message for me?"

Pasquier removed the parchment from inside his cassock and handed it to his fellow priest. "Your friend said it was urgent."

There was no addressee listed on the letter, and when he turned it over to examine the seal, he saw that there wasn't one. "Obviously, he did not want it traced should it fall into the wrong hands." He looked up again. "Thank you, my friend. Have you eaten? The cook has just made some delicious pastries. Or perhaps you would care for a drink?"

The other priest shook his head, quickly. "Thank you, but I must return. I am expected for evening prayers." He acknowledged the others with a quick nod. "Godspeed, gentlemen. I can find my way out."

Pasquier departed, closing the door behind him, and while Aramis broke the seal and opened the letter, Philippe, who had been listening against the parlor door, opened it and returned to the study.

Aramis easily recognized D'Artagnan's impeccable, flowing script. "It is from D'Artagnan," he announced, as his eyes quickly scanned the message.

The other three men waited for him to reveal the contents of the letter. When he did not, Athos finally prompted, "Well? What does it say?"

Aramis's eyes darted toward him, reminded that the others were not aware of the contents of the letter. "He says that Louis has scheduled a pheasant hunt tomorrow morning on the LaCroix estate."

Porthos sat up straighter, startled. "LaCroix?"

"Yes. That is what it says." Puzzled by Porthos's reaction, he asked, "Does that mean something?"

"Absolutely. His estate is adjacent to mine! They will pass right in front of my gate to reach his property."

"How does he want to handle this?" Athos asked.

"He requests that if we have a shooting lesson planned tomorrow morning it should be terminated, as there will be armed Musketeers securing the LaCroix property, and if musket fire is heard, they will investigate the source." He tugged absently at his beard. "All right, this does pose some problems, but it does not necessarily have to be a serious problem. We will take Philippe out once more this afternoon for a final shooting lesson, so we must make it count. We will remain indoors tomorrow morning, and then travel into Paris in the early evening to attend the ball."

Philippe felt his heartbeat quicken. He had one more evening to simply be Philippe; tomorrow evening, he would be king.


	24. Chapter Twenty Four

**A/N**: I am not a hunter, so I have chosen not to go into very many details about the actual hunt because I'm sure I would probably make some blunders regarding procedures. However, the dogs used in this story are a real breed that would have been used in France during the 1600's.

**Pronunciation guide:** In France, Gilbert is pronounced _Zheel-bare_.

* * *

Twenty Four

At the entrance to the long shaded lane which led deeper into the property of Regnault LaCroix, D'Artagnan sat quietly on the back of his gray stallion and observed the empty road that stretched out toward Paris. Soon, the king and his entourage would be approaching via this road, but he was uneasy, seriously questioning the wisdom of Louis' decision to venture out of the controlled environment of the palace when assassins were still awaiting their chance to eliminate the monarch.

LaCroix's large stone manor house stood regally at the end of the long shaded lane behind him, and he had posted Musketeers at strategic points around the residence, for it was expected that Louis would probably take refreshments there. Beyond the outbuildings, stables, pastures, and crops was open, unfenced land, stretching for great distances in all directions. And, by Louis' decree, the Musketeers had been forbidden access to that area, yet he expected them to see to his safety.

This was the most difficult assignment he had ever been given; guarding the interior of the property without sending men into the areas that were to be protected. He had placed men at various locations at the edge of the property along the road, the most likely point of access, but the entire barracks of Musketeers was not sufficient to guard even one side of the huge estate. I was useless to send his men to the outer edges of the property, for it would take them hours to reach the assigned areas, and they would not have sufficient time to be in place when the king arrived.

His countenance was unusually tense, his brow furrowed, and his mouth set in a grim line. He had not slept well during the night, remaining awake for hours in an effort to form a strategy, but in the end he was forced to concede that there was no good way to protect the king in such a wide open space. As a result, he felt tired and irritable. Adding to his stress was the close proximity of Porthos's estate, and he prayed silently that the king would not order a squad of Musketeers to investigate his estate in search of his outlawed friends, for they would not only find Athos, Porthos, and Aramis there, they would also find Philippe. It seemed that both of his sons and his three best friends were all in danger in one way or another!

The stallion pawed fretfully at the ground with one hoof, but the captain ignored his mount's impatience. Turning in the saddle, he looked up the lane behind him. The dirt road curved through the large trees and around a small rise of earth before it reached the house. There were plenty of potential hiding places for would-be assassins throughout the property.

"This is no good," he muttered to himself.

"Pardon, Captain?" asked the young Musketeer who was mounted beside him on a handsome bay. It was clear that something about the current situation was making the captain ill at ease.

D'Artagnan did not look at him, his eyes continuing to survey the road and the surrounding terrain. "Where are your men positioned?"

"My men are stationed all around the manor house as you ordered, Captain. I have positioned some in the tree line, and some at the outbuildings, including the stables. Others are guarding all entrances to the house."

D'Artagnan nodded, absently. It was easier to protect the king inside a building than it would be during the hunt itself, when Louis would be in the open with few men at his side to protect him. "I am less concerned about the house than I am the rest of the property. We simply haven't enough men to properly secure the estate."

"Yes, Captain," the subordinate Musketeer agreed.

D'Artagnan shifted his eyes to the sky. It was a clear morning with only a few wispy clouds drifting lazily across the heavens. It appeared the king would have good weather for the hunt and for his ball. By the position of the sun, he estimated that it was nearing seven o'clock. The king would be arriving momentarily.

The stallion pawed impatiently at the ground again, its hoof digging a shallow furrow in the soft earth. This time, the captain gave it a light nudge with his spurred heel, and it snorted in protest and tossed its heavy gray mane as it sidestepped away from the spur, but it immediately settled down.

The baying of a hunting dog caught his attention, and he shifted his attention to the Paris road again and saw that the royal procession approaching. Louis was riding at the head of the column, mounted on the black gelding. He was flanked by Lieutenant Andre on one side and his personal valet, Francois, on the other. Other members of the king's court followed, including a member of the armory to reload the king's weapons, the trainer of Louis' hunting dogs and a servant entrusted with two bottles of Louis' favorite wine intended as gifts to his host. The dogs rode in a small cart so they would not tire out on the journey from Paris. Armed Musketeers enclosed the entourage on all sides except the front, all of them keeping a watchful eye for signs of danger.

The procession stopped at the entrance to the property, and Louis addressed the Musketeer captain. "Good morning, D'Artagnan. I was surprised when Lieutenant Andre informed me that you had left the palace before dawn, with most of the Musketeers. I trust you have secured the property?"

"Your majesty, forgive me, but it is impossible to properly secure an estate this size," D'Artagnan replied. "We have done as much as we are able, but it is not enough. There is simply not enough time or men to reach and protect the outer edges of the property."

Louis did not appear particularly displeased. "That is why I have kept the location of my hunt a secret, revealing it only to necessary personnel. No one outside my Musketeers and servants know that I am here, so therefore I must be safe. Would you not agree?"

He sighed, heavily. _No, I would not agree._ "Sire, please indulge me. Granted, it was a good idea to keep the location a secret as long as possible, but your life is in danger anytime you are away from the palace. Always, there are watchful eyes seeking to take advantage of an unguarded moment."

"That is why I have you and the other Musketeers to protect me," Louis answered without concern.

"Without a constant escort, it would be very easy for an intruder to gain access to the estate at almost any location, and seek you out."

"With an estate this size, it is unlikely that anyone would be able to find me even if they did gain access to the property. There is far too much wilderness area, and we will be constantly moving."

"The sound of your muskets will lead them directly to you! There is always greater strength in numbers. I beg you to please reconsider and allow a squadron of Musketeers to accompany you."

Louis had been listening with growing impatience. "Absolutely not, D'Artagnan! You know how I feel about this. There are already too many people accompanying me, people I must have to manage the dogs and my muskets. I will allow you and Lieutenant Andre to accompany me, but no others. We will discuss it no further!"

D'Artagnan dipped his head in a slight bow and averted his eyes with a low sigh of resignation. Well, two were better than none. "As you wish, your majesty."

Louis was aware that his captain was displeased that his concerns were not being taken seriously, but he was determined to enjoy this rare excursion outside the palace grounds, and he refused to allow it to be jeopardized by a platoon of Musketeers following him everywhere he went. The entourage proceeded up the winding lane toward the manor house. D'Artagnan accompanied them, keeping nervous vigilance, while the young subordinate on the bay horse remained to guard the entrance.

Regnault LaCroix, wearing his finest blue coat, breeches, snow white stockings, and shiny buckled shoes, was awaiting him in the yard, and offered a deep, sweeping bow to the king that D'Artagnan suspected had been practiced many times for the occasion. Behind him, his wife and daughter, dressed in their finest gowns, curtseyed gracefully. Two younger sons, dressed in the fashions of the day, bowed respectfully. Several servants who stood rigidly at attention also bowed to their king.

"Your majesty, what an honor it is to host your hunting expedition," LaCroix said. His hands gestured toward the gently rolling hills of his estate. "Please, consider my home and my property to be yours during your visit."

Louis' eyes swept over the bowing, curtseying subjects, his eyes lingering a few moments on the lovely daughter, before coming to rest on his host. "I shall," he replied. He signaled one of the servants with a flick of his hand. "Please accept my gift to you in appreciation of your kind invitation."

The servant nudged his horse forward and offered the bottles of Bordeaux to LaCroix. His eyes lit up with delight, and he bowed again. "You are most generous, your majesty. After your hunt, you are welcome to come inside and partake of this fine wine. My chef will have some of his finest creations awaiting your pleasure."

"I shall do that," Louis replied. "But for now, I am eager to take up the hunt. Jacques," he said to the man in charge of his muskets, "You will accompany me, as will Perrot, Lieutenant Andre, and D'Artagnan. Gilbert, you will manage the birds. The rest of you will remain here to prepare for my return." Nudging the black gelding, the king led the way through the populated areas of the property and into the wilderness areas where his host had claimed the game was abundant.

D'Artagnan and Andre followed behind with the lieutenant on Louis' left flank and D'Artragnan on the right. Jacques rode slightly behind with Perrot and the dogs. When they reached a likely area for game, Perrot dismounted and turned the reins over to Gilbert while he sent the dogs into the field to begin the hunt.

True to their careful breeding and training, the dogs spread out in the tall grass to seek out the game fowl they were hunting.

Throughout the morning and early afternoon, one plump bird after another was flushed out by the Braque du Bourbonnais hunting dogs. They were shot by the young king, and then retrieved by the dogs, while the two Musketeers kept their attention on the area surrounding them, searching for any indication of intruders onto the property as they moved from one area to another seeking additional game. Jacques was kept busy loading and priming the muskets, and Gilbert took charge of the dead birds, tethering them to his saddle while Perrot sent the dogs into the field again. The king was a fairly good shot, but birds in flight were difficult targets, and when he occasionally missed, he would quickly pass the empty weapon back to Jacques and seize the other to bring down the bird.

With nine pheasants and six partridges dangling from Gilbert's saddle, Jacques finally announced that his pouch was empty of balls. Louis turned briefly to D'Artagnan, and for a moment the captain feared he would request his ammunition so that he might continue the hunt, but he seemed to realize that the lead belonging to the Musketeers was what guaranteed his safety, and thought better of it.

"Very well," the king announced after much consideration. "It has been an excellent hunt and I regret having to retire, but I suppose we have more than we need for the ball. Gilbert, present two of the birds to LaCroix with my compliments. Take the rest back to the palace and instruct my staff to begin preparations for the feast. Perrot, you may go with him. See that the dogs are well-fed; their performance today was outstanding." He passed the empty musket to Jacques, as it was no longer needed. "Jacques, you may retire as well. Make certain that my muskets are cleaned."

"Yes, your majesty," he replied.

Perrot mounted his horse again, and he, Gilbert, and Jacques rode back toward the house, leaving the king alone with the two Musketeer officers.

D'Artagnan watched the retreating figures with unease. The other three men were servants, but he had no doubt that Perrot and Jacques were skilled with muskets, and they added to the number of men who were capable of defending the king. Now, it was merely him and Andre, and it would be difficult to fight off multiple attackers. "We should return to the house, your majesty," he suggested. "Monsieur LaCroix will have refreshments waiting for you to enjoy before we begin the trip back to Paris."

Louis glanced at the sky, and saw that it was early in the afternoon, probably nearing two o'clock. They had missed the lunch hour, but he was enjoying the opportunity to explore his host's property. He understood that his head bodyguard was anxious to get him back into a controlled environment, but that knowledge was enough to make him delay. The king was in charge, and he would not be rushed. "We have had a marvelous result this morning, have we not? I do not believe I have ever brought down so many birds in a mere few hours time."

"You did indeed do well, your majesty," D'Artagnan agreed, discreetly casting an uneasy glance around the immediate area. "Your skill with a musket is excellent."

"LaCroix was certainly correct. Fat birds are abundant on his property. My guests will be suitably impressed."

"Yes, your majesty," D'Artagnan agreed again in a distracted fashion, and glanced nervously over his shoulder. He had that feeling again; that nagging sensation of being observed by unseen eyes. Ahead of him and to the left was a gently rolling grassy field dotted with many trees and shrubs, but on his right was a densely wooded area that he found particularly troubling. His gaze focused on the thickly growing trees and brush, and he felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck, certain that the unseen eyes were watching from there.

Inside that wooded area, the two watchers exchanged surprised glances at the captain's nervous demeanor. "He senses our presence," one of them marveled, his voice a whisper.

"I had no idea that there was such outstanding hunting in this area," Louis was saying, totally oblivious to the fact that he might be in danger. "I shall have to return another time and try my hand at bigger game, like roebuck, red deer, or maybe even boars."

"Boars are very dangerous," Andre pointed out when the preoccupied captain failed to answer. He glanced at D'Artagnan, wondering why he had fallen quiet. "My uncle had some on his property, and they were surly creatures."

Louis ignored him. "Still, there must be large game here, wouldn't you say?"

"Well, we have seen no large game, but they were most likely spooked from the sounds of your muskets, and are hiding," Andre replied.

"True. While we are here, let us take a look around, and see what we can flush out."

"Sire, we should return to the house," D'Artagnan insisted, speaking abruptly. "I do not believe it is a good idea to remain in this wilderness very long. The risk to your safety is too great."

"Nonsense," Louis told him. "I have you and the lieutenant to protect me. I am perfectly safe."

"Your majesty –"

Louis pointed to the left. "We shall go this way." Nudging the black horse, he turned to his left, moving away from the stand of trees and dense brush from which D'Artagnan believed an unseen person was watching their every move.

D'Artagnan started to follow, turning his back on the trees, but the sensation of being observed had intensified to an alarming level and he quickly made a decision. In one swift motion, he wrenched the reins sharply to the left. The stallion half reared and pivoted on its hind legs, completing a total about-face. At the same instant, the Musketeer drew his weapon and directed the muzzle into the tree line at the patch of color that did not seem to belong to nature.

"Whoever is there, step out immediately," he commanded.

Andre and Louis stopped and turned around, surprised. Andre immediately sized up the situation and realized that his captain had detected an intruder. "Your majesty, get behind me."

Finally accepting that his life might indeed be in danger, Louis instantly moved his horse behind that of the lieutenant, allowing his bodyguard to shield him from the suspected danger. Andre drew his weapon and, like his captain, directed it at the brush, even though he had not yet determined the specific nature of the threat.

Just inside the tree line, Athos and Porthos stared at the musket that was pointed directly at them, amazed that their old friend had detected their presence. They had made no sound at all, had simply been watching motionless as the three men passed.

"_Damn_, he's good!" Porthos said once again with great admiration, as he had done many times over the years. "I have never seen a man so intuitive!"

"Show yourself!" D'Artagnan demanded in a firm voice. "Do it now!"

Athos sighed, heavily. "We have no choice but to surrender," he said to his partner. Raising his voice, he said, "D'Artagnan, it is us; Porthos and Athos. We are coming out, so do not fire. We mean no harm."

A moment later, the two former Musketeers emerged from the brush on horseback, their hands raised to demonstrate that they were empty, and D'Artagnan, recognizing his friends, responded by turning the muzzle of his musket skyward to prevent an accidental discharge from injuring them.

"That is him!" Louis shouted from behind Andre before D'Artagnan could inquire about their presence there. He pointed a condemning finger at the intruder. "The one who tried to kill me! They are traitors! Arrest them! Arrest them now!"

"That is a bit premature, your majesty," the captain said, calmly. "We must first ascertain why they are here."

"We have no sinister intentions, I assure you," Porthos said.

"Just as Athos had no sinister intentions when he came to the palace to assassinate me?" Louis retorted. "What other reason could you have for following us? Down off your horses this instant. Leave your weapons in the saddle holsters or I will order you shot on the spot!"

Athos and Porthos looked at D'Artagnan for instructions, and he gave a single nod, indicating that he should do as ordered. The details could be worked out once the king no longer felt himself threatened. Louis' face darkened with anger that they had deferred to their friend for confirmation rather than instantly obeying his command, but he remained silent. He would have the final word on their fate!

Moving slowly and deliberately, the two men dismounted from their horses.

"On your knees, traitors," Louis ordered. "Place your hands on your heads."

Athos and Porthos glanced at each other apprehensively, then did as they had been told; they sank to their knees in the grassy turf and laced their fingers together behind their heads. D'Artagnan watched uncomfortably from the back of his horse as his friends knelt like captive criminals, and shook his head slowly with disapproval at the humiliation.

Louis watched attentively, making certain that his prisoners complied. "You are to be commended, D'Artagnan," he said, admiringly. "Your attentiveness is unequalled. This is why I always feel safe in your presence."

The beleaguered Musketeer did not feel worthy of praise. To the contrary, his heart had sunk the instant he had heard Athos's voice from the woods, knowing that whatever reason they had for being there, Louis would believe they intended to make another assassination attempt. And, as he had declared the previous day, he would show no leniency. Had D'Artagnan known it was his friends, he probably would have chosen not to betray their presence, but in apprehending them, he now feared the result of his attentiveness. Slowly, his mind working furiously to find a way to defuse the situation, he dismounted and tied the stallion to a tree limb.

When the captain did not answer, Louis shifted his attention back to his protector and saw that the captain had lowered his weapon, a rather uncommon reaction to capturing wanted fugitives. "Keep them covered, D'Artagnan," he commanded.

"Sire –"

"Do it!" Louis raised his voice. "Lieutenant, get their weapons."

Andre dismounted and stepped forward to retrieve the pistols from the saddle holsters, then backed away several steps. With the perpetrators unarmed and on their knees, Louis felt safe to dismount as well, and he approached them on foot.

"For what purpose are you here?" D'Artagnan asked his friends, hoping they could provide a suitable answer. If they could not . . . he did not even want to think about that.

"I heard gunshots from my home," Porthos explained. "We came out to investigate who was trespassing."

"The king was hunting pheasant," he replied, wondering if Pasquier had failed to deliver his message the previous day advising them that the king would be in the area.

"I have no objections to the king hunting on my property," Porthos said in an amiable tone, "but it is always a politeness to inform the landowner when his property is to be used for such activity."

"You are mistaken," Louis told him. "This is land belonging to the LaCroix estate. He invited me to hunt here."

"You have wandered onto my land," Porthos replied. "It is easy to understand how you might have made such a mistake; after all, the unfenced portions of our land adjoin one another, but I assure you, you are standing on my property right now." His eyes shifted back to D'Artagnan with great emphasis in his expression. "As I said, I heard the gunshots from my home; you were getting near to the house, so we came out to investigate who was shooting on my land."

D'Artagnan had been unaware that they had traveled from one man's property to the next, but he understood exactly why his friends had determined that they must keep an eye on the hunting part and head them off if possible. He gave a slight nod, satisfied that their observation of the hunting party was justified. "That is a reasonable explanation, your majesty."

"That changes nothing!" Louis retorted. "Even if this is his property, he had no right to be following us. I can only assume that they meant to do me harm."

"Your majesty, we have no evidence of that," D'Artagnan said, attempting to calm the angry young king. "It is probable that it is as Porthos has said. After all, you said yourself that no one outside the entourage knew of your hunting party, so how could they possibly know that the person hunting here was you? It seems only natural that Porthos would wish to investigate the source of shooting so near his home."

Louis frowned at D'Artagnan in apparent disagreement, then looked at his two prisoners. "Tell me, where have you been these past weeks?"

"We have been away on a personal matter," Porthos replied, ambiguously.

"Both of you?"

"The three of us, actually."

"The three of you," Louis responded, mockingly. "Aramis, too. I sent Musketeers out here to question your servants. Why is it they had no knowledge of where you had gone?"

"I did not tell them," he replied, calmly. "They are servants; it is not their concern where I go or what I do."

"Tell _me_. What was this personal business you say you were conducting?"

"Why all these questions, your majesty?" Porthos asked, maintaining an innocent expression. "Am I not free to come and go as I please?"

"Did you servants inform you that the king had been looking for you?"

"They did. But we only returned two days ago, and have not yet had the time to request an audience with your majesty."

"Why were you hiding in the woods?"

"To determine the identity of the people who had come onto my property with guns. For all I knew, you could be highwaymen seeking to do me harm."

Louis was not getting anywhere with his interrogations, and D'Artagnan could see that he was growing impatient with Porthos's evasive answers. "Sire, he has provided satisfactory explanations for his absence and also for his current presence. This is clearly a misunderstanding."

"Do not argue with me, D'Artagnan," Louis snapped. "This is no misunderstanding. I know that you are merely covering for your friends. I say that he and Athos and probably Aramis too have been conspiring against me and that they are here to do me harm. It is also a fact that this incident would not have occurred had you not been derelict in your duty the first time."

D'Artagnan flinched noticeably at the allegation. Never in his entire life as a Musketeer had anyone accused him of dereliction of duty. "Sire, my dedication to you has always been ---"

"Silence! If you will recall, Athos made another attempt on my life hardly more than a month ago in the Musketeer's compound, yet you made excuses for him and ultimately allowed him to go free to try again! And clearly, that is what was intended here. I understand that you have loyalty to your friends, but your first duty is your loyalty to your king." He stared long and hard at the captain, deciding the manner of punishment that he felt was deserved. "Since you failed in your duty before, it will be for you to see this through to its conclusion."

D'Artagnan was unable to hide the feeling of trepidation that shivered down his spine at the ominous implications of Louis' words.

Louis nodded at the comprehension that flickered in the Musketeer's eyes. "Yes, you understand, don't you? You have always been very clever. My orders are for Athos to be executed immediately, under my direct supervision, so that I will know that it was done properly and that he will no longer pose a threat to me. Porthos will be taken into custody for questioning. You may redeem yourself by conducting the execution yourself! A single shot to the head should be sufficient."

The king's harsh words and unexpected command sent a stab of agony through D'Artagnan's heart, and he stared at the young king in disbelief, unable to believe he had heard correctly.

Andre also expressed astonishment at the particularly cruel directive that his captain had been given, and he looked from Louis to D'Artagnan wondering how his commanding officer would respond. He understood the difficult position in which he had been placed, for he had been ordered to kill his best friend when there had been no clear evidence of wrongdoing. He shifted uncomfortably. As a Musketeer, he had seen executions before, including some that he felt disapproval of, yet his had never felt as apprehensive as he did in this moment. This did not feel right.

After a long moment, D'Artagnan said quietly, "Sire, it is not necessary to kill this man. I can assure you –"

"Your king has issued a direct order, D'Artagnan!" Louis interrupted. "I expect you to carry it out!"

Another long hesitation followed as D'Artagnan struggled with the ramifications of the order he had been given; to murder the best friend he had ever known or face an as-yet unspecified punishment for failing to obey his king's order. _Duty and honor._

"D'Artagnan!" Louis said, sharply, jerking him out of his contemplations. "Must I turn this over to Lieutenant Andre?"

Andre looked startled, no more eager than his commanding officer to carry out this heinous order.

"No," D'Artagnan replied at last. _All for one._ "This is for me to do." He looked at Athos, still on his knees, and their eyes met. The older man's lips parted slightly in disbelief, apparently believing that his friend intended to carry out the execution as ordered.

"D'Artagnan," Porthos said incredulously, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

"What I am about to do is for the good of the country," D'Artagnan replied, his voice fraught with emotion, but his eyes were locked with those of Athos, as if to convey a message that the other man was failing to comprehend. _One for all._ "I am sorry that it must be this way, but I have been given no choice."

Louis nodded, approvingly, pleased that in spite of his personal anguish, his captain intended to carry out his orders. "Your loyalty and dedication has always been strong, and will stand up to this test. You understand what your duty is. That is what makes you such a good Musketeer."

D'Artagnan lowered his gaze to the pistol in his hand, regretting the task with which he must use it. He could feel the eyes of the others on him as he delayed; Andre was gazing at him with sympathy, understanding the bond of devotion and friendship that existed between him and his friends, but there was no such feelings from Louis, who shifted impatiently, waiting for him to carry out his orders. _Do what you must!_ he told himself, silently. _It is the only way!_ After a moment's hesitation, steeling himself for what he knew he must do, he raised the pistol and took aim – not at Athos, but at the king!

Louis and Andre both took startled steps backward. "What – what are you doing?" Louis demanded.

"The only thing I can do." His eyes turned to Andre, who was so overwhelmed by this shocking act of rebellion that he seemed to be uncertain whether to turn his musket on his captain in defense of the king, or remain still. He saw the bewilderment in the younger man's wide eyes, and knew that his initial reaction would be to defend his king. How many times had he drilled that very thing into his men: _No matter the cost, you must defend your king!_ "Don't do it, Lieutenant," he advised.

"Captain, I . . . " His voice trailed. After a moment of hesitation, the lieutenant lowered his pistol.

Athos and Porthos watched in astonishment, for the two of them alone understood what the other two men did not: That D'Artagnan had drawn his weapon against his own son, a son he loved dearly, even though he had never been able to acknowledge him as his son. This was something the former Musketeers did not take lightly, for they both knew the true depth of D'Artagnan's devotion to Louis.

"You will not get away with this!" Louis protested. "I am king! You would not dare harm me!"

"It is not my wish to harm you," D'Artagnan replied, "but do not mistake my caution for indecisiveness. I will do what I must." He gestured toward Andre. "Return their muskets, and turn yours over to them as well."

Athos rose slowly to his feet, and reached out his hand, expectantly. Heavier than his friends, Porthos struggled to his feet with a little more difficulty.

After a moment of stunned hesitation, Andre complied with the command, returning Athos's and Porthos's muskets to them, plus his own. "Captain," he protested. "Are you certain you want to do this? This is treason!"

"There is no treason here, Lieutenant," D'Artagnan replied, his demeanor very calm, in Andre's opinion, for a man who had just violated his vow to protect his king. "Very shortly, you will understand why."

"No treason?" Andre repeated the captain's words. "You have just turned your weapon on your king, the sovereign you are honor-bound to protect! How can this not be an act of treason?"

"The lieutenant is correct, D'Artagnan!" Louis told him. "Because of this action, you will join your traitorous friends on the execution block!"

"No one is going to be executed," he replied, his voice quiet. "This is not how I had wished to do this, but you have given me no choice."

"You had a choice, D'Artagnan," Louis retorted. "Your duty was to obey the orders of your king!"

"I cannot carry out an unjust order. For too long I have stood silently by while you misused your authority. I have protected you since the day you were born, but I can no longer stand by and witness your treachery. Your power has corrupted you in ways that I never anticipated." He gestured toward Athos. "You deliberately sent this man's son to his death so that his fiancée would permit your advances toward her, for she would never have done so otherwise, and even then, she did so only to help her ailing family, for you would have denied them medical attention had she not. You distributed rotten food to your people, and then sent Pierre, your loyal advisor, to his death accepting the blame for your own misconduct. I only wish I had known then what I know now, so that I might have prevented it. That is only a small sampling of the injustices you have committed. You have disgraced the crown with your despicable behavior. I no longer recognize you as my king."

Louis' face darkened with rage. "How dare you speak to me with such insolence?" He made a movement toward D'Artagnan, but the Musketeer raised the pistol higher so that Louis was looking down the dark bore. He instantly froze, staring fearfully at that small round hole. Shifting his eyes slightly, he looked into the eyes of the man who held it, eyes that were once filled with kindness and patience, now brimming anger.

"It is long past time for someone to speak the truth to you," he continued. "All these years, I have attempted to guide you, to help you learn humility and honesty, and to understand the great responsibility that your office holds, but I was forced to stand back and watch while the former king turned you into a spoiled, pampered peacock with no regard for the lives of others."

"Do not speak so disrespectfully of my father!"

D'Artagnan averted his eyes briefly, then met the king's gaze once again. "In a way, you are as much a victim as the subjects who have suffered under your reign, for your authority came to you much too young for you to understand how to properly use it. I pity you, Louis, for you have no knowledge of how to treat others, or of the hardships you place on them. But that will soon change, for I know the truth. All of it."

A stab of apprehension rippled through the young king's body at the ominous declaration. "Wha – what do you mean?"

"I know your secret, the one revealed to you upon the king's deathbed."

The color slowly drained from Louis' face as he considered the possibility that the secret he had kept for so many years might have been discovered. "How could you --?" he began, then quickly recovered his composure. "I do not know what secret you are referring to, but even if you do think you know something, what good could it possibly do you?"

D'Artagnan turned to Porthos. "Find Aramis and have him bring Philippe here. We will make the exchange now. Instruct Philippe to wear his old clothes beneath his coat."

Porthos picked up the reins of his horse. "You two will be all right while I am gone?"

D'Artagnan nodded. "Go. We must do this quickly."

Porthos mounted the horse, wheeled it around, and rode away at full gallop, knowing that the exchange must be done before the entourage at the house came out looking for the king.

After the sound of hoof beats had faded away, Louis asked, "Phil-Philippe? Who is Philippe?"

"You do not even know his name, do you? To you, he was nothing more than the man in the iron mask; a nameless creature of no more value than a dead dog. How have you been able to look at yourself in the mirror and not think of him? How could you live in such luxury and not wonder about the squalor to which you condemned him? How could you sit at your fine table and fill your belly and not wonder if he was starving? How could you lie in your soft bed each night and not think of him lying on that cold stone floor of the prison? _How, _Louis_?"_ D'Artagnan's voice rose to a shout, his abrupt outburst causing the young king to jump. "_How could you do that to him?"_

Louis' heart was beating faster with fear as he gazed into the enraged eyes of the man who stood before him, understanding at that moment exactly what was about to happen. "No! That cannot be! He is dead! I received word from the prison! They burned the body and sent me the mask as proof!"

"An illusion," D'Artagnan replied. "An illusion created for a specific purpose."

Louis wiped his sweaty hands on his coat. "He's alive?"

"Very much so."

"What . . . what are you going to do with me?"

"Ultimately, that depends largely on you, Louis."

Andre had been listening to the conversation in quiet confusion. Never before had he seen his commanding officer behave so unpredictably. Clearly, something major was occurring, and he was beginning to suspect things he did not even want to contemplate. "Captain, what is this all about?" he asked, nervously. "I know that you must have a reason for what you are doing, but at this moment, I cannot imagine what that might be."

"You will find out momentarily. All I ask is that you trust me for a few more minutes. After that, you will need to make a decision regarding your loyalties. Quite possibly, it will be the most important decision you will ever have to make, for the future of your country is at stake."

"You are intending to overthrow the government, aren't you?" Andre asked, seeking confirmation of his suspicions.

"Not in the way you think. Once you understand our plan, it is my hope that you will join us, but even if you do not, it will be our word against yours. No one will believe you if you attempt to make accusations against us."

"I do not understand. How can that be? How can you replace the current king with someone else, and then expect that no one will notice?"

"All will be revealed in a few minutes."

Andre fell silent again, waiting to see what would transpire when Porthos and Aramis arrived with the person called Philippe.

D'Artagnan glanced repeatedly over his shoulder toward the direction of LaCroix's house, but so far there was no sign that anyone was looking for the king.

Athos followed his gaze. "How long do you suppose they will wait before someone comes looking for him?"

"Hopefully, it will be a while yet. They know I was with him and that the property is being patrolled by Musketeers, so they would assume he is safe here." He glanced at the sky, observing the sun's progression. "How near are we to Porthos's house?"

"Not far," Athos replied. "Just beyond that rise."

"So close?" D'Artagnan marveled. "I had no idea."

"Well, the fact that you are no longer on LaCroix's land works in your favor, for they will likely search his property first if his staff becomes restless." He paused, briefly. "D'Artagnan, for a moment, I thought . . . " He looked away, ashamed that he had even considered such a notion.

"I know," his old friend replied, softly. "I regret that I had to put you through that."

"You had no choice," Athos agreed, then the hint of a smile turned up the corners of his mouth. "I must say, you are a very good actor. I think you even had Porthos convinced that you would follow through with the order."

D'Artagnan managed a slight smile, but Athos could see that his heart was not in it. After all their preparations, the moment of truth had arrived: the Musketeer captain would now pay the price for his sin, as one son was exchanged for the other. One would rule the country, and the other would be sent to the Bastille.


	25. Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Five

A short time later, Porthos, and Aramis returned at a hard gallop, accompanied by a third rider. Lieutenant Andre centered his attention on this unknown person, as it seemed he was the focus of what he still presumed to be a treasonous act, but even at a distance, there was something strikingly familiar about the rider's posture and appearance. As they drew nearer and reined in their horses, his jaw dropped in disbelief.

"He looks – he looks exactly like . . . " His voice trailed in confusion, and while the riders dismounted and secured their horses, he turned to his commanding officer for explanation. "How can this be?"

"He is Louis' identical twin brother, Philippe," D'Artagnan explained. "Kept hidden since birth by the former king, and then condemned to a life of misery by his own brother."

"Twins?" Andre asked, still slack-jawed with astonishment as his mind struggled to accept the reality that his eyes were seeing. His eyes darted to Philippe, who regarded him silently as he stood between Aramis and Porthos. "They are brothers?"

"When they were born, the old king removed Philippe from the palace and ordered that he be removed from Paris and sent away to live in obscurity, so that he would never know his true identity and therefore would never be a threat to young Louis' reign. I only found out about him two weeks ago."

"_That_ is what you were up to these past few weeks!" Louis said, livid with rage. "There was no trip to Gascony! You and the others were conspiring against me! To steal my throne and give it to _him_!" His finger stabbed the air in the general direction of his brother in emphasis, and his eyes narrowed with suspicion as he considered who could have disclosed Philippe's existence to others. His attention settled on D'Artagnan, the only one of the four friends who had constant access to the palace. "My father told only me and my mother of his removal from the palace. Did she reveal this to you? Is she part of this betrayal?"

"Your mother has no part in it," Aramis said, softly before D'Artagnan could answer. "You forget; there was one other who knew of the secret twin, and has born this burden of guilt from the very beginning."

Realization dawned. "You! It was _you_!"

"Yes, it was I who followed the old king's initial order to remove the younger twin from the palace and find a new home for him. And then years later, on your orders, it was I who removed him from the home in which he had been raised and confined him to the prison, and it was I who was tormented year after year from the horrors I had committed against your brother. And it was I who have freed him, with the help of friends, in an attempt to right this terrible injustice that was done to him and hopefully restore fairness and integrity to the throne."

"My father entrusted you with this secret because he believed you would not deceive him. You betray his trust with this treasonous act."

"It was you who betrayed his trust by taking the information he gave you and using it to bring harm to your brother."

"I was told so that I might take necessary steps to protect myself."

"Your father revealed your brother's existence not only because he wished to make you aware that you had a twin, but also because he intended that you would see to his needs. Upon his death, he transferred that obligation to you, and you mishandled it in the cruelest way possible. The mask was _your_ creation, and you ordered me to commit the most heinous act imaginable, one which has plagued my conscience every day since. The only way I can find salvation is to set things right again."

Andre was frowning as he listened to the discussion, and sought to understand the full scope of the events to which he had been previously unaware. "What is this mask you speak of?"

Aramis reached for a cloth sack that was hanging from his saddle, and Andre's eyes fell upon the shape of the object inside it, thinking that it bore a gruesome similarity to the severed head of the advisor who had been executed only weeks earlier, when it had been placed in a sack and tossed into the coffin with the torso. "When the old king died, young Louis here commissioned an iron mask be made," Aramis was saying. "He ordered me to place it upon his brother's head so that others would not look upon his face and see the resemblance." He untied the top of the sack and withdrew the hideous contraption. "This very mask."

For several long moments, Andre stared at the mask and its empty eye holes with obvious revulsion, then he turned questioning eyes upon his king, as if silently requesting confirmation of the accusations. Louis glared back without shame or remorse, nor did he make any attempt to justify his actions. He was the king, and his word was law; there was no need to validate his decisions with anyone.

Aramis continued, "Louis then ordered me to lock him away in a prison on the island of St. Marguerite, where he has been living in isolation for the past six years." He placed his hand on Philippe's shoulder for emphasis. "His own brother! Philippe lived in this mask and in that dank, dark cell for six long years. Imagine, if you will, what it must be like to have your head locked inside this mask, unable to remove it. Imagine that you must eat and sleep while wearing it. Imagine never being able to touch your own face or see your reflection. This is the cruelty that Louis is capable of, Lieutenant."

Andre was listening attentively as he looked from one twin to the other, apparently trying to imagine how one brother could be so cruel to the other, and still marveling the existence of the secret twin. "Were it not for the clothes, I would be unable to tell them apart!"

"And no one else will, either," D'Artagnan said. "It should be obvious to you by now that our plan is to replace Louis with Philippe. And this is where you must make a decision, Andre," he said, appealing to him as a friend instead of a subordinate. "But I ask you to think on this carefully. Louis is a corrupt, merciless king. You know this to be true, for you have also witnessed his treachery. And in spite of my loyalty to him, I have been ashamed of his behavior; ashamed of the way he ignores the needs of his people in favor of his own desires."

Andre knew that D'Artagnan and the others were awaiting his decision as he looked from one to the other, but it was the most difficult decision of his life. "Captain, I know that what you are saying is true, and I admit that he is a corrupt and merciless king. But he is our king. We took an oath to protect him."

"As peculiar as it may seem, that is exactly what we are doing. Over the past year, we have stopped six assassination attempts. Only a few days ago, you yourself stopped a seventh attempt. It isn't only the Jesuits who hate him; it is the common people, the lifeblood of France. At this very moment, a simple farmer is sitting in the Bastille awaiting execution for this latest attempt on his life, a man whose crops had been confiscated to feed Louis' army, and who saw no other way out of his family's poverty and hunger than to remove the king from the throne the only way he knew how, even knowing that he would likely be caught. No matter what we do to protect him, it is only a matter of time before one of them is successful, and when it happens the country will be thrown into chaos as each of his royal relatives attempt to seize the throne for his own gain. When that happens, which of them will you serve?"

Andre was quiet for a long time, pondering his captain's words and especially the question he had asked. Assassination of the king was always a possibility; Louis' grandfather had suffered that fate. But there had been a son to whom to pass the throne, and at present Louis had no heir; only the brother he had wronged, a brother no one else knew existed. "Captain," he said at last. "I have served him loyally for years."

"As have I," D'Artagnan reminded him. "I did not reach this decision casually, and I would not be a part of this if I did not believe it to be the best way to preserve France. By placing Philippe on the throne, no one dies, and at long last the country gains a respectable king, a righteous king. I know this is a difficult decision for you, but you know that no one has been more loyal to the king than I have been. Consider this; we are not replacing him with an outsider. Philippe is his twin. They have the same blood. He was born only minutes after Louis; he has a legitimate claim to the throne."

Andre lowered his gaze to the grass, carefully considering everything he had been told. Tradition and loyalty was firmly instilled in him, and exchanging the rightful king for the other was a concept he had never considered. And why should he? There had never been a situation like this before. Could it possibly be done? Lifting his eyes from the ground, he looked long and hard at the four men who stood before him, the legendary _Inseparables_, the Four Musketeers whose heroic deeds had inspired his desire to join the service. Even in middle age, all four were remarkable figures of courage and unity, and their mere presence aroused a strong desire to join their cause. But still he hesitated, understanding that once he took that step, there was no turning back.

"My heart wants to follow you, to serve a righteous king," he admitted at last, "but I have sworn an oath to defend the king. The _rightful_ king. How can I turn my back on that?"

"By opening your eyes and mind to the treachery you have witnessed under his reign," Aramis told him. "Do you think we did this simply for the sake of doing it? No. The Jesuit movement is gaining strength, and a revolution is nigh at hand. The people are discontent, and many innocent lives may be lost if a rebellion occurs. We are doing this for the good of the country, so that the wrongs committed by this king will be righted. Lieutenant, I have seen your face many times when it was obvious that you disapproved of his corruption, is that not true?"

Andre could not deny the revulsion he had felt on more than one occasion when the king had committed an unrighteous act or issued an immoral order. "Yes. But you said yourself that he has been raised away from the Court. Will he be able to rule the country effectively?"

"With us to guide him, yes," Aramis answered. In response to the flash of doubt that he saw in Andre's eyes, the priest added, "No, this is not an attempt by us to rule France by proxy. As soon as he has learned the things he must know to govern the country, we will step aside."

"We haven't the time to discuss this," D'Artagnan said, growing impatient with the delay. The longer they debated, the greater the risk of detection. "Lieutenant, if you wish to think on this, we will grant you a few minutes to do so, but then you must make a decision." Dismissing the lieutenant for the moment, trusting Athos to cover him with the musket, he turned to Philippe. "We will need you and Louis to exchange clothes." He quickly surveyed the surrounding countryside, but there was no sign that any of the other Musketeers or king's aides were nearby. "This is our best opportunity."

Aramis was nodding, approvingly. "An excellent idea to seize the occasion," he agreed. "Here, with only us present, we cannot fail." He smiled, as if amused. "Perhaps my original plan was a bit flawed after all."

Porthos nudged him playfully with his elbow and said to D'Artagnan and Athos, "_Finally,_ he admits to a flawed plan!"

Philippe was staring at his brother, who in turn was staring at him, both of them experiencing very different reactions to seeing the other face to face for the first time in their lives. Philippe, who had never known a family, regretted the separation and still held onto the hope that they could one day enjoy a bond of brotherhood; Louis knew only bitterness and resentment that the secret had been exposed and that this stranger was stealing everything that was rightfully his.

D'Artagnan observed the faces of his two sons, together for the first time since birth, and knew that there were conflicting emotions between them. How strange it must be to look into the face of another, and see your own face looking back at you! But for the Musketeer captain, his own thoughts and regrets had found their way into his heart, a yearning he could never begin to express. Everything would have been so different had it been possible for him to acknowledge their paternity, and taken them and their mother away to live as a family.

Philippe had not responded to his statement that they should exchange clothes, so D'Artagnan placed a hand on his shoulder to attract his attention. "Philippe." The younger twin turned to look into the Musketeer's solemn face, then nodded to indicate that he had heard, and immediately began unfastening his coat.

Louis stood red-faced with indignation and hatred for all these men who were seeking to overthrow his authority for their own gain. How dare they speak so viciously about him! His hand brushed against something hard beneath his elaborate riding coat, and with a jolt of remembrance, he recalled the long ornamental dagger that he carried at his waist. Because it was concealed beneath the coat, his attackers were unaware of its presence. A new feeling of hope surged in his heart, reassured by the weapon. All he had to do was kill his twin, and the plot would be foiled. There would be no one to replace him with, and they would have no choice but to renounce their treasonous conspiracy.

Warily, he shifted his eyes from one man to the other. Porthos was with the horses, and carried no visible weapon except his sword, which was sheathed. D'Artagnan's and Aramis's attention were on Philippe, speaking last minute instructions to him as he undressed. Athos was watching Andre, still suspicious that he would try something. And Andre's attention was diverted by the pistol that Athos was pointing at him. Apparently, no one believed the king was capable of defending himself. Well, he would show them.

Discreetly, he slipped his hand beneath the coat and gripped the handle of the dagger. It was warm from his body heat, and comforting in its deadly capacity. Adjusting his grip, he quickly withdrew it from the sheath and lunged at his brother.

D'Artagnan heard the scraping sound of the dagger being withdrawn, and whirled around. Instantly, he realized what was happening. Stepping between the two brothers, he caught Louis' arm, effectively blocking the downward plunge of the knife, and roughly flung him to the ground.

Athos had instantly turned his pistol from Andre to Louis, wanting desperately to shoot, but even through the activity of the attack, D'Artagnan noticed it. "No!" he exclaimed. Athos gave a slight nod of acknowledgement and lowered the weapon.

Louis sprawled on his back in the grass, and the murderous rage that D'Artagnan saw in his contorted face ripped at his soul. The older of his twin sons who had once trusted him, would forever remember him as the man who helped steal his throne. The damage could never be repaired.

Pointing a stern finger toward the young man, D'Artagnan said, "Do not move!"

Louis glared, but said nothing. He was breathing heavily, not from exertion, but from the fury that could not find release.

The Musketeer turned to Philippe, who had watched in wide-eyed astonishment as his own brother had attempted to murder him. "Are you hurt?"

Philippe shook his head. "No."

Louis' grip tightened on the handle of the knife that the captain had failed to remove from him, and stared at the man who had been his chief bodyguard for years, focusing his exposed back. Insane with rage, a scream tore from the throat of the deposed king as he started to scramble to his feet again, still determined to carry out his deadly mission even if it meant eliminating D'Artagnan as well, but before he could get his feet under him he heard a long steel blade being unsheathed and an instant later the tip of a sword was at his throat. Stunned, he stared into the angry face of Lieutenant Andre, who had drawn his sword in defense of his captain.

"Don't try it," the lieutenant warned.

Louis shrank away from the blade that was pressed beneath his chin, and leaned back on his elbows, staring in shocked disbelief at the lieutenant who had just foiled his plans, and was surprised to find open hostility glaring back at him.

D'Artagnan turned around again and quickly assessed the situation. Athos had raised the musket once more and had resisted the urge to fire prematurely, but there was no question that he would have done exactly that had Louis managed to get to his feet. Lieutenant Andre had automatically risen to the task of stopping Louis' attack, his loyalty to his captain greater than his loyalty to the king. His gaze came to rest on the man who had just saved his life, and no doubt Louis' life as well.

Andre shrugged in response to the unspoken question he saw in the older man's eyes. "It seems I have made my choice, doesn't it?"

D'Artagnan gave a quick nod of acknowledgment, then knelt beside Louis and yanked the dagger from his fist. Resentfully, Louis spat in the captain's face, generating a spontaneous reaction from D'Artagnan that he never would have believed himself capable of. Before he could even think about what he was doing, he backhanded the young king across the mouth, sending him careening back to the ground.

Andre saw a solemn look pass between the three former Musketeers, a look he did not fully understand, and presumed it was surprise that the captain would actually slap the former king.

D'Artagnan stood up, wiping the saliva from his face with his sleeve, and glared down at his son. "Get up and strip," he commanded. In a graceful gesture, he tossed the dagger to the ground near Philippe so that it cut the sod smoothly, and stood upright.

"You will never get away with this!" Louis screamed, pressing his hand to his stinging cheek. Never in his entire life had anyone dared strike him!

"We will get away with this," Athos contradicted. "Do not think that we have not planned this out very carefully."

"You are wrong. My mother –"

"Your mother –" Athos begin, but was stopped by D'Artagnan, who did not want to tarnish the young man's opinion of his mother by informing him that she was already aware of the switch. After he was deposed, she would likely be his only visitor.

"Your mother loves you as only a mother can," the captain said quietly, interrupting Athos, "but she cannot help you any more than she could help Philippe when your positions were reversed. Now strip."

"No," Louis said, defiantly.

D'Artagnan grasped the front of his coat in both hands, and pulled him to his feet. "I said strip, or I am certain Porthos will be delighted to do it for you."

"I can get the job done," Porthos said, eagerly, stepping forward.

Refusing to endure the humiliation of having his clothing removed from him by the hands of the jolly ex-Musketeer, Louis yanked off his coat in a gesture of frustration that nearly popped the buttons. "You won't get away with this," he repeated. "I will see each one of you at the guillotine, I promise you that. Starting with you, D'Artagnan." He threw the coat down on the grass and removed his vest. "I never thought you would betray me like this. If ever there was anyone on my staff that I believed I could rely on, it would be you."

"You gave me no alternative," D'Artagnan replied, quietly.

"There is always an alternative, D'Artagnan," Louis shot back. "What you are doing is treason. You were not on staff as my advisor, yet you gave me advice, and I listened to your words, I truly did."

"And you discarded them as soon as I left the room."

"I will be willing to forget about all this," Louis said, changing his tactic. "All of you will be allowed to go free if you stop this foolishness at once. I will give you safe passage to the coast, where you may take a boat to wherever you wish to go."

"It is too late for tricks, Louis," D'Artagnan replied. "Promises are easy to make, but we are not foolish enough to believe that you would honor those promises." He turned to Athos, and made a slight gesture toward Andre. "Return his musket."

Athos passed the musket he had taken from Andre back to its owner, but as the lieutenant's hand closed around it, he did not release it immediately. Andre looked up questioningly, his eyes meeting those of Athos. The former Musketeer gave a slight nod that carried with it great significance. "You are one of us, now," he said. "All for one, one for all. There is no turning back."

Andre experienced a profound sensation of intense unity, understanding that the famous _Inseparables_ were accepting him into their secret mission, an honor they had not bestowed on anyone else since they had welcomed D'Artagnan as one of them many years earlier. The lieutenant nodded is acceptance of the role he would play in the exchange. When Athos released the musket, Andre joined him in covering Louis, a peculiar feeling for the young man who had dedicated his life to protecting that very person, but having made his decision, he would face the consequences of it, regardless of how it ultimately concluded.

With his coat, vest and shirt off, Louis turned his eyes toward the direction of the mansion, hoping beyond hope that a member of his staff would come looking for him, but all he saw was the green grass and the trees dotting the open land. Hopelessness tightened his chest with the realization that there would be no rescue.

"The boots and breeches too," Porthos told him.

Furiously, Louis pulled off his boots and unfastened the breeches, and removed them as well. He threw them angrily onto the ground. How dare they subject him to this humiliation! When he was standing barefoot and in his undergarments, D'Artagnan picked up the clothes that had been discarded on the ground and took them to Philippe, who began to put them on. Taking Philippe's discarded clothes, he carried them to Louis.

"You may put these on."

Louis looked at the clothes that his brother had been wearing with considerable distaste. The shirt and trousers were quite plain, suitable for peasants. He folded his arms and lifted his chin, defiantly. "I will not."

"Are we going to go through this again?" Porthos asked. "Would you prefer that I dressed you like an infant?"

Louis snatched the clothes, singled out the breeches, and stepped into them. "How dare you treat me with so little respect! You think no one will notice? Francois draws my bath and helps me dress. Believe me; he will notice any differences between Philippe and me."

"For his sake, he had better not, or he may find himself serving you in prison," Aramis said, cryptically.

Louis froze, his fingers hovering over the buttons that fastened the breeches, and his eyes darted toward the priest. "P-prison?" he stammered. He never noticed the injured expression that drifted over D'Artagnan's face or the way he lowered his gaze to the ground at the mention of the prison, but Andre noticed it and understood that removing Louis from power was as difficult for the captain as it was for him.

The three former Musketeers apparently did not share the misgivings of the two officers, for Aramis was unsympathetic as he replied, "That is correct. Why do you think your brother was dressed in peasant clothes? It would look rather odd for a prisoner to be sent to the Bastille wearing the king's clothing!"

Shock rippled through Louis' body with the confirmation of his fate. "The Bastille!" he responded, trying to maintain an air of authority, but his fear was vivid in the tremble to his voice. "You cannot confine your king to the Bastille! This is an outrage!"

"We can and we will," Porthos declared.

Aramis suddenly thought of something. "D'Artagnan, it just occurred to me. To place him in the Bastille, a written order is required from either you or the king. In the haste of our departure, I did not think to bring a parchment or quill."

"No matter," D'Artagnan replied. "I always carry them with me in case urgent orders are needed."

Aramis was unfastening the mask, and D'Artagnan knew that it would soon be affixed to Louis' head. He turned away, unwilling to watch while they did this terrible thing to his son. Moving to the stallion, he opened the saddle satchel. Wherever he rode, he always carried a capped ink well and a quill, just in case orders needed to be written on the spur of the moment, and this situation had progressed to just such a moment. After removing his writing implements from his satchel, he spread a sheet of parchment against his saddle and began to write his instructions for Louis. Starting a fire to melt the wax for his personal seal would attract unwanted attention, but he knew that his script was distinct, and that no one at the Bastille would question its authenticity if delivered by his Lieutenant.

Behind him, much to his distress, Louis had realized what was about to happen. "No!" he cried, fearfully. "You cannot do this!"

"Why not?" Aramis asked. "You did it to your brother."

"But I am _king_!"

As Aramis approached him, Louis took several steps backward, as if to avoid the loathsome object, but he knew there was no chance for escape. Porthos seized both arms to hold him still, and Athos and Aramis affixed the mask to Louis' head. In deference to D'Artagnan, they were careful to arrange his hair in such a way that it did not become entangled in the hinges, in spite of his continued struggles to free himself. Locked in Porthos's firm grasp, he was unable to break the hold on his arms, and was forced to submit to the indignity of wearing his brother's mask.

Tears of emotional agony burned behind the D'Artagnan's eyes at the sounds of his son's misery, and one of them spilled over the rim, leaving a wet track down his cheek. He quickly wiped it away on his sleeve, hoping that no one had noticed. He could not show weakness during this important time. When the orders were completed, he took a deep breath to compose himself, then the document was folded and turned over to Lieutenant Andre.

"These are instructions for his incarceration," he said, forcing his voice to remain steady, even though his heart was breaking. "I am placing you in charge of escorting him to the Bastille. Aramis and Porthos will accompany you. Under proper procedure, the document should also bear my seal, but explain to them that we were in the field and could not light a fire. I believe there is a deaf-mute serving as a guard in the Bastille?"

"I believe so, Captain. He is used to care for political prisoners who might be inclined to bribe their guards. Since he can neither hear nor speak, he is less inclined to be tempted by their offers."

"Good. Louis is to be confined alone in an obscure corridor of the Bastille with no other prisoners nearby with whom he might communicate, and he is to be attended to only by this one man. If he attempts to solicit the guards on the way in, tell them that he is insane and that they must ignore anything they might hear him say, but that he must be kept well-fed and well treated by personal order of the king."

"I will see to it, Captain. What if they ask about the mask? It isn't every day that someone is brought in with his face covered in such a way."

"Inform them that he is a political prisoner, that he was masked by order of the king, and that they need know no more than that."

Andre nodded toward Porthos and Aramis. "They are still wanted for questioning," he reminded him.

"If anyone questions their presence, tell them that this man was apprehended during the king's hunt, that Athos, Porthos, and Aramis came to our aid, and by order of the king the three of them are no longer under suspicion."

Andre nodded. "Yes, Captain."

"You will never get away with this!" Louis screamed, his voice muffled by the mask.

Aramis finished tying Louis' wrists together, and roughly shoved him toward the borrowed horse that Philippe had been riding, but D'Artagnan moved in front of him and caught him as he stumbled. Even in his fear and anger, Louis noticed the gentleness in those hands as he set him upright again, and he looked up and their eyes met. There was unspeakable sorrow in the Musketeer's blue eyes.

D'Artagnan did not fail to detect the fear that stared back at him through the eye slits carved in the mask, and he felt his heart clench with grief. "Your Majesty, I have served you well your entire life, and it grieves me to see this done to you."

"You had a hand in _doing_ this to me!" Louis retorted, bitterly.

"I know, and it gives me no pleasure to see you suffer so. But I will offer some advice –"

"I want none of your advice!" Louis snapped. "You are a traitor!"

"Nevertheless, you will hear it," D'Artagnan continued, his voice calm. "And I advise that you listen well, for it may determine your future. Your brother is now king, and he has the power to determine your fate, but I am certain that he will show more mercy to you than you have shown to him. There are plans underway that will soon remove you from the Bastille and provide you with a more comfortable existence. I suggest that you think about that carefully, for your behavior can persuade him to do otherwise."

Louis looked at Philippe, who stood nearby wearing the king's clothing, _his_ clothing, and felt the rage building inside him again. "You have no right to do this to me! I am the king!" he repeated.

"For your sake, I suggest you keep that information to yourself," D'Artagnan said. "No one is going to believe you, and anything you say to them will be regarded as the wild ravings of a madman. Remember, you may exchange your incarceration at the Bastille for a more pleasant existence, but only if you conduct yourself in manner that is deserving of reward."

Louis had condemned many men to the Bastille, but he had never in his wildest nightmares believed that he would one day join them there. Like a common criminal! "I _deserve_ to be treated with respect!" he retorted.

Philippe moved toward him, his eyes apologetic. "Louis, my brother, I wish we could have met under different circumstances. I know it means little to you right now, but I never wanted to see this done to you and I never wanted your throne."

"You say these things, and yet you steal everything that is mine!" Louis retorted.

"You and the former king have also stolen from me," Philippe continued, quietly. "He stole my birthright and the right to know my family, but even worse, you stole my dignity. You confined me in unimaginable filth and stench when I had committed no wrongdoing. My only crime was that I looked like you. These men have told me some of the things you have done to your subjects, and that is why I agreed to step into your place and rule under your name, even though in doing so I am giving up my own identity. It is not out of vindictiveness that I do this, for even after the way I have been treated, I still feel no ill will toward you. But . . . " He averted his eyes briefly. It was difficult to see that horrible mask looking back at him. "I know you must hate me, but it is my hope that one day we might find some sort of understanding between us. That we might come to know each other as brothers. As family."

"I wish you had died in that prison!" Louis spat. "You have no right to do these things!"

"Your incompetence as a ruler has given him the right," Aramis corrected. "And he may also be saving your life, for one day one of those assassins who have plagued you for the past year would succeed." His hand clamped on the Louis' shoulder. "It is time to go. Get on the horse."

"No."

Porthos stepped forward, and he and Aramis forced their prisoner into the saddle. While they mounted their horses, Andre approached D'Artagnan, fumbling with the written orders that he held in his hand.

"Captain, after the prisoner has been delivered, what are your orders?"

"Return to the palace. We will be returning shortly. When we arrive, we will begin preparations for the ball this evening. We must be extra vigilant. I do not want our new king to fall to an assassin for the sins committed by his brother."

With his orders in place, Andre mounted his horse.

Panic rose in Louis, and he clutched the pommel with his bound hands until the knuckles turned white. "No! Please!" he screamed. "You cannot do this to me!"

D'Artagnan placed a comforting hand on Louis' thigh, a gesture he would never have dared under normal circumstances. "Louis, calm yourself and have the courage to accept your fate as Philippe did. He lived six years in the mask that you now wear, but at his decree you will not have to suffer for so long a time as he. This is going to happen, and it is better that you face it with dignity, like a man, as your father would have expected. The Bastille is only temporary. As I said before, we are preparing another place for you, a place where you will be more comfortable and where the mask can be removed when you are alone. You will be well-treated, but you must be cooperative. Do you understand?"

Something in the Musketeer's tone and touch seemed to sooth the frightened young man, and his words offered encouragement that he would soon be free of the horrors of the Bastille. After a long moment, he nodded his head. "Yes."

D'Artagnan patted Louis' thigh with great affection and gave it a fatherly squeeze, then stepped back. "See that he has a cot to sleep on," he instructed. "And that he is treated with respect."

"I will see to it," Andre promised.

"Go."

Aramis took the reins of the horse that carried Louis, and with a nod to the Musketeer captain, he turned toward Paris with Porthos and Andre following.

D'Artagnan watched his older son being escorted away until he was out of sight, then he turned and walked a short distance away, succumbing to his grief. Leaning his hand against a tree, he pressed his fingers against his eyes in an attempt to check the flow of tears.

Athos and Philippe watched in silence, understanding the anguish that D'Artagnan was feeling as a father. Philippe then lowered his gaze to the ground, visibly distressed that his brother would suffer the same fate he had endured and fully understanding the pain he father was experiencing.

After a moment, Athos approached him and placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it with great compassion. "I know how difficult that was for you to do," he said, softly.

"I have just taken from my son everything that he has known his entire life and condemned him to a horrible existence," he said, his voice breaking slightly.

"You must hold on to the knowledge that the arrangement is not permanent," Athos urged. "Soon, he will be moved to the house and a more comfortable life."

D'Artagnan nodded. "I know. I just wish there had been another way." He looked at his best friend, his eyes shining with tears. "I struck him, Athos. I struck my son." He shook his head in disbelief at his actions. "I never would have thought I could do such a thing, but I was already angry that he had attempted to kill his brother, and then when he spit in my face, I just reacted without even thinking."

Athos was quiet for a long moment, then spoke in his quiet voice, "Well, you can hardly be blamed for that. Sometimes, it is necessary for a father to discipline his son out of love for that son, and that is something Louis has never known."

"Knowing that does not make it any less painful."

"No, it doesn't," Athos agreed.

"He thinks I have betrayed him. And I suppose I have."

"You mustn't think of it like that. Because of your courage, France has the chance to recover from everything he has done, and Philippe can restore respect for the crown. Tomorrow, we will begin to make the changes necessary to insure the stability of the country and the people."

D'Artagnan drew a deep breath, recomposing himself. "Come, we must get the king back to the house before he is missed." He untied his stallion and mounted.

Philippe could not help but admire his father's magnificent gray stallion, but it did not seem appropriate at the moment to comment on things of such beauty while his brother was being escorted to the Bastille, so he untied his black and mounted. With Athos on one side and D'Artagnan on the other, the three men crossed back over the property boundary.

For a while, they rode in silence. Philippe silently observed the faces of the two men who flanked him, each one deep in his own thoughts, but soon D'Artagnan knew he must prepare his younger son for his arrival at the house and at the palace.

"There are things you must know before we reach the house," he said. "The owner of the estate is Regnault LaCroix, and he is the one who made the offer to the king to hunt on his property. Louis shot nine pheasants and six partridges this morning, and had two of them presented to LaCroix as a gift. Louis also gave him two bottles of Bordeaux. He invited Louis inside after the hunt to share one of the bottles with him, but it would be better if you decline. Tell him that you appreciate the offer, but you must return to the palace."

Philippe nodded, gratefully. The last thing he wanted to do was engage in small-talk with a complete stranger. "Is he invited to the ball?"

"Yes, but it is unlikely that you will do more than exchange pleasantries. For this hunting trip, Louis was accompanied by several people, including his personal valet, Francois –"

"He's the one you've been worried about," Philippe interrupted.

"Yes. I spoke with your mother last night, and she believes he will not notice any significant differences between you simply because he does not know that the king has a twin, but when in his presence, or any one else's, you must be careful to maintain that haughty air that Louis possesses. Francois is wearing white breeches and a blue coat. Louis also brought with him the man who trains and handles his hunting dogs, Perrot, and Jacques, who reloads his weapons for him, but he sent both of them back to the palace. He also brought a few other servants, but you will not need to remember their names at this time. I'm not sure Louis knows them, either."

"Perrot handles the dogs and Jacques handles the guns," Philippe repeated.

"Yes. The birds have been sent back to the palace to be prepared for the feast this evening during the ball. The menu and drinks have already been ordered, so you will not have to concern yourself with that. If there is anything wrong with the menu or items that could not be obtained, they may come to you for instructions. You may refer them to your mother to handle."

Philippe drew a deep breath, feeling a bit overwhelmed. "There is so much to remember," he worried.

"You will be fine," Athos assured him.

Philippe became noticeably uneasy when the house came into sight, prompting D'Artagnan to draw his horse to a halt. Likewise, Philippe and Athos stopped, and both turned to him, expectantly.

"Son, I understand that you are nervous, but the king would never look as frightened as you are right now. You must appear relaxed and confident."

"I do not know if I can do this," Philippe replied, honestly. "What if I do something wrong? What if someone notices something different about us?"

"They won't. Louis is not well acquainted with LaCroix. He was invited here merely to get in good standing with the king, nothing more." Reaching toward his son, he straightened the cravat and the sleeve of the gilded coat, apparently pleased with his appearance. "To look at you, no one will know that you are not Louis. But you must appear confident of yourself, even arrogant."

"What will I say?" the young man inquired. "I fear I will say something wrong, or that my voice will be too weak or . . . I just fear I will say or do something that will give us away. Louis will not be forgiving should we be found out and exposed as imposters. I could accept my own death, but I could not bear knowing that the two of you would be executed as well."

"That is not going to happen, Philippe. I will do most of the talking, but you yourself must explain why we will be leaving the estate without joining the host for refreshments. Merely inform him that another attempt was made on your life, and that you must return to the palace. I will take it from there."

Philippe nodded his head slowly, but D'Artagnan could see the vein that was pulsing in his neck in rhythm to his elevated heartbeat. This would be the first test of his ability to fool his staff into believing that he was Louis.

Athos placed a comforting hand on the young man's shoulder. "You are going to do fine, Philippe. We will both be at your side through this, and we will guide you through it." He tightened his fingers, gripping him and shaking him gently in affection. "I have no doubt that you are going to be a good king."

Philippe took several deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself, then he nudged the black horse with his heels, and they walked their mounts toward the house. Almost immediately, he began to notice armed Musketeers posted around the residence, and understood that they were there to protect the king. He lifted his chin, trying to appear somewhat haughty, and placed his right fist on his hip.

"Excellent," he heard D'Artagnan say quietly in approval.

The three men came to a halt near the entrance to the house, and a Musketeer, recognizing Athos, rushed forward lifting his musket to the ready. "Halt, you!" he commanded.

"Lower that weapon," Philippe commanded.

The Musketeer reluctantly did as instructed. "But Sire, this man is Athos, who attempted to assassinate you that day in the Musketeer yard!"

"I am well aware of who he is," Philippe replied. "But things are not as they appear."

D'Artagnan and Athos exchanged glances behind Philippe's head. That was certainly the truth!

"Another attempt was made upon my life during the hunt, and this man and his friends, Aramis and Porthos, came to my assistance by aiding in the capture of the perpetrator. They and Lieutenant Andre are at this minute escorting him to the Bastille. I want it known to all that I am granting pardons to all three."

LaCroix had stepped outside while Philippe was speaking, and was wringing his hands together in despair. "I am so sorry, Your Majesty! I hope you do not believe that I had anything to do with it, since it occurred on my property! I assure you, I had no knowledge of --"

"It was not on your property, actually," Philippe interrupted, keeping his voice strong and authoritative. "We had wandered onto the estate of Porthos. That is why he and the others came out to investigate the shooting, and by chance discovered the would-be assassin. I am not holding you accountable."

LaCroix bowed, greatly relieved. "Thank you, Your Majesty."

"I hope you understand why I will not be able to accept your invitation to share your refreshments, however. I must return at once to the palace."

"Of course, your majesty. However, there is one matter . . . " His voice trailed, and it was apparent that he was extremely agitated.

"What is it?" Philippe asked. "Speak."

"Well, your majesty, it is your valet, the man called Francois." He looked helplessly around, as if seeking assistance in his explanation. His wife and children all averted their eyes, reluctant to pass along the bad news to the king. "It was a terrible accident, Sire. No one was to blame. He was taking the Bordeaux to my wine cellar where the air is cool, so that it might chill for a while before your return, and . . . well, he must have tripped. I have no other explanation. He fell down the steps and broke his leg."

Athos's head instantly whipped around to look at D'Artagnan, who was equally astonished. It seemed that fate had intervened in their favor, and was clearing the way for Philippe to take the throne.

"Quite a nasty fracture," LaCroix continued, greatly distressed by the shocked expression on the king's face. "I summoned a physician, who arrived posthaste to care for him, but . . . well, the physician indicated that he will be unable to return to the palace for some time. I know that this is a terrible inconvenience to you, and I will offer any one of my personal servants as a replacement. Of course," he added quickly, "we will see to Francois's total comfort here until he is able to return to you."

Philippe seemed uncertain how to respond to this startling bit of news. "I am certain that you will," he replied with a hint of uncertainty in his voice that seemed to go unnoticed by the others, but was instantly noticed by D'Artagnan.

"Sire, if I might suggest," he said, a signal to Philippe that he was stepping in to avert a possible problem.

Philippe gratefully deferred to the captain. "Certainly, D'Artagnan." How strange it was to call his father by name!

"Since all new employees must be carefully screened for your safety, I suggest we promote from within the palace. We have many young men who would eagerly accept such a position until Francois is able to return."

"Yes. You are quite correct. LaCroix, your offer is noted, but I must decline."

LaCroix bowed, respectfully. "I understand, Your Majesty."

Philippe hesitated, wondering if he should go to Francois to see how he was doing. Would the king do such a thing? He glanced at D'Artagnan as if for instruction, and as expected, the Musketeer rose to the occasion.

"Sire, if you are ready, I believe we should return to the palace now. I will send someone out to check on Francois in a day or two. Right now, he will probably appreciate the rest."

"Very good," Philippe agreed. He started to turn away, then remembered the gift of wine that Louis had presented to his host. "What of the bottles of wine? Were they damaged in the fall?"

LaCroix looked extremely pained. "Regretfully, both were shattered, Your Majesty. I am terribly sorry that such a wonderful gift was lost."

"Since it was not your fault, I will have replacements sent to you."

LaCroix's eyes brightened, eagerly. "Thank you, Your Majesty! You are most kind."

With a nod, Philippe turned his horse away, and the entourage fell in behind him. The Musketeers formed a protective circle around him as they rode away from the house and proceeded toward Paris.


	26. Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Six

It was a very long ride from LaCroix's estate back to Paris, and the entire way Philippe was acutely aware of the clopping of hooves of many horses all around him. He did not attempt to count the Musketeers who were there to protect him, for their numbers were great and it would have appeared odd for the king to do such a thing. He could not help but feel a bit awed by the sheer numbers of men who were there to keep him from harm. The Musketeers kept a watchful eye on the surrounding countryside and the small communities they passed, unaware that the man they had protected for years was at that moment being taken to the Bastille.

Beside him, the gray stallion ridden by D'Artagnan pranced with a gracefully arched neck as if showing off for the mares ridden by a couple of the king's helpers, and once it flattened its ears at the black gelding when it turned its head toward it. Trying to occupy his mind with things other than what faced him when he reached the palace, he wondered how it would have appeared if the two horses had gotten into a fight. He had no doubt that D'Artagnan could have controlled the gray, but also had no doubt that he, the new king, would have been dumped unceremoniously onto the hard dirt road.

Turning his head to his left, he glanced into the serious face of his father, and saw that his attention was directed at the nearby hills, the treetops, and the rooftops of the cottages that they passed. With a jolt, Philippe realized that, at that very moment, he could be targeted by any one of the people who had been wronged by his brother. Nervously, he looked to his right and saw that Athos was likewise preoccupied, scanning the area for threats to his safety. It was a humbling experience for the young man for whom so many people were willing to give their lives for his safety, and he vowed that it was one which he would never take for granted.

With his mind preoccupied with protecting Philippe, D'Artagnan had little time to think of Louis being escorted to the Bastille at that moment, but it was constantly in the back of his mind, for he could not push it aside completely. He knew those thoughts and concerns for his older son would come later when he retired for the night, but for now he welcomed the intensity of his position as head bodyguard.

Attentively, he shifted in his saddle to look behind him, assuring himself that no one was following. Satisfied, he faced front again, and his sharp eyes almost immediately noticed a gathering of people near the road ahead of them. They were too distant to determine any details, but large crowds were particularly dangerous, for it was impossible to watch every individual.

His hand instantly went to his musket pistol without withdrawing it. "Musketeers, be alert. There is something going on ahead of us. Remain watchful of your flank."

As one, the column of Musketeers readied themselves to protect their king as they drew nearer to the assembly. Those on the edges continued to observe the hills while the ones on the inside watched the crowd ahead of them.

D'Artagnan glanced at Philippe, and noticed that he too was observing the crowd with interest. "It is probably just a group of your subjects, eager to view their king," he said, hoping his calm voice would ease the young man's mind.

And indeed, that was all it was; a group of children standing beside the road bowing and curtseying to Philippe, and waving to him in their eagerness. D'Artagnan noticed that the house they resided in was up the hill and back from the road, but they must have seen the entourage nearing and come out for a look at the royal procession.

Philippe's eyes fell upon the children, observing their manner of dress. They were tattered but clean, and it was apparent that their mother maintained an orderly household even though they had little money to spare for frivolities. They were somewhat undernourished, but their father obviously managed to find a way to keep his family at least moderately fed.

One little girl caught his eye, a bright-eyed child of about seven who smiled happily. "Good afternoon, your majesty!" she called.

"To you also, child," he responded.

She beamed with elation and clutched her older sister's arm. "He spoke to me!"

Several of the Musketeers exchanged glances, and Philippe realized that exchanging pleasantries with peasants was something Louis probably would not do. However, by his way of thinking, it was a small beginning toward changing the way the public viewed the crown. He cast a discreet glance at D'Artagnan. His father gave a slight shake of his head, indicating that he should not have done that, but he also saw a hint of a smile on the older man's face, and knew that his father approved.

"I am beginning to realize that hearts are won by the simplest of gestures," Philippe said.

"Indeed they are, your majesty," D'Artagnan replied.

A half hour later, a large cluster of buildings could be seen on the horizon, and Philippe knew they were nearing a city of some size. Was this the beautiful city of Paris that he had heard so much about, or was it just another city they must pass en route to the palace?

"Paris is just up ahead," D'Artagnan said, answering his son's unspoken question. "We will take the most direct route to the palace." Turning to the Musketeer on his left, he said, "Take twelve men and ride ahead. Keep a watchful eye for security problems, and signal if you notice anything suspicious. Send a man ahead to inform the palace that the king will be arriving shortly."

"Yes, Captain." The Musketeer spurred his horse forward, and a group of thirteen men galloped ahead.

Philippe had never seen a city as large as Paris, and he tried not to stare at the beautiful buildings and cathedrals that lined the streets. The civilians that they passed, many of them of obvious wealth judging by their manner of dress, stopped to bow or curtsey to the king as he rode past. A few rode on fine horses, and they stopped to bow their heads respectfully and offer greetings.

This time, Philippe merely dipped his head in acknowledgement, and continued onward.

D'Artagnan was clearly trying to avoid most of the poorer sections of the city in the selected route to the palace, but bypassing them all was unavoidable due to the degree of poverty, and Philippe could hardly believe the difference in the appearance of those areas. As before, the people paused whatever they were doing to bow to him, but he was certain that the gesture was done begrudgingly, for he saw expressions of contempt in those careworn faces. And hunger. He recognized that immediately in the emaciated faces that glared up at him or watched from windows above as he rode past. Worst of all were the children, large eyed and innocent, wearing tattered, filthy rags and dirty faces, and he realized that he was seeing firsthand the indifference of his twin brother.

Horrified by what he was witnessing, he glanced again at his father's solemn face. D'Artagnan did not look at him, but he knew from the pressed lips and troubled eyes that he too was affected by the poverty.

As they passed a particularly dilapidated cluster of houses, Philippe's eyes fell upon an ancient old man sitting on a rickety wooden bench outside his ramshackle dwelling. There were open sores on his weathered old face similar to those he had seen on some of the prisoners in nearby cells at St. Marguerite. His white hair was thin and tangled, his face gaunt with hunger. The sunken eyes were yellowed with illness and clouded with cataracts, and the hands were gnarled with arthritis, yet in spite of his afflictions, the frail old man propped himself on his home-made cane as he struggled to his feet, and managed to bend slightly at the waist in a respectful bow.

Philippe jerked his horse to an abrupt halt. The others also stopped, and he knew there was a questioning look in his father's eyes as he turned toward him, but Philippe did not look back at him. He could not pull his eyes away from the old man, noticing the way his legs were barely able to support his weight. Amazingly, he saw none of the contempt in this man's face that he had seen in most of the others.

Realizing that he had the young king's rapt attention, the old man said in a thin, trembling voice, "Good day to you, your majesty. I was proud to serve in your father's army many years ago."

Philippe was so overcome with emotion that he could barely find his voice. This sick old man who should have been in bed, had managed out of respect for his monarch to stand and display his devotion to the king. How could his brother have treated his country's veterans so poorly? How could he possibly have allowed the poverty to reach this level?

"This man needs medical attention and nourishment," he said to D'Artagnan. "See that he gets it."

D'Artagnan seemed startled by the order, for Louis would never have done such a thing. "Your majesty –"

Philippe turned his eyes to his father, and D'Artagnan was surprised to see tears there. "Do it." He looked around the neighborhood, visibly shaken by the things he was seeing. Doors in many residences were hanging by one hinge, window shutters were missing or in need of repair, and filth and garbage was everywhere. From his experience in the prison, he knew that disease ran rampant in such filth. "We must discuss a way of cleaning up this mess and finding employment for these people."

The residents within hearing range looked at one another. There was scorn on their faces at what they believed would likely be another broken promise, but there was also a ray of hope in their eyes that perhaps this time it would be different.

"Yes, Sire," D'Artagnan replied.

With the order given, Philippe nudged the horse and moved ahead.

D'Artagnan exchanged glances with Athos, then nodded toward one of the subordinate officers. "Take two men and see that the king's order is carried out. Locate a physician and have him tend to this man. His services will be paid by the palace."

"Yes, Captain."

The three young Musketeers dismounted and approached the old gentleman while the rest of the royal procession continued onward.

At last, the entourage reached the palace, and they entered through the ornate gate. The huge residence stood before him in stark contrast to the poverty they had just left only a short time before, a grand palace the likes of which he had never seen. The lawn was perfectly manicured, and decorated with lush gardens, ornate fountains, and impressive statuaries, and Philippe took it all in as discreetly as possible, but inside he could not help but feel a bit overwhelmed.

They stopped at the foot of the massive stairs, and a guard appeared to hold the black gelding while Philippe dismounted. As his horse was led away, he paused to straighten his clothing, and to await D'Artagnan to signal whether he should go up the stairs first.

D'Artagnan turned his stallion over to one of the men, and addressed the column of Musketeers who had also come to a stop nearby. "Make certain that the grounds are secure for the ball this evening. Those of you who are on duty inside the palace will change into dress uniform. The rest will guard the exterior of the palace and the perimeters of the grounds."

The men dispersed to carry out their orders.

Impressed by their instant obedience to his father but trying not to show it, Philippe started toward the staircase, deciding that it was proper for the king to take the lead. He must have decided correctly, for D'Artagnan, and Athos followed, and they made their way up the steps toward the door.

Two men were standing at the top just outside the doorway, and by their manner of dress Philippe assumed that they were men of some importance, most likely men he should know. Leaning toward D'Artagnan, he whispered, "Who are they?"

"The man in the gray coat is Claude, your senior advisor. He was promoted to the position after Pierre was executed for distributing the rotten food. The man in the red coat is Girard. He has assumed the position of assistant advisor. You will see a great deal of both of them, so I will provide more details on them after you are settled. They are likely here to simply welcome you back, but if they indicate that they have business to attend inform them that you haven't the time right now; you will deal with it later."

Philippe nodded, observing the two men carefully. His heart was pounding wildly and he felt somewhat lightheaded as he proceeded up the steps. How could he possibly fool these people who worked with the king everyday, and convince them that he was Louis? The task seemed impossible!

"Calm yourself," Athos whispered. "You look like you're going to an execution!"

"If I fail, it could very well become the truth!" Philippe replied. "Not only for me, but for all of us!"

When he reached the top, the two advisors glanced apprehensively at Athos, apparently recognizing him, but neither made any comment as they bowed deeply to Philippe. The one named Claude said, "Welcome back, your majesty. I trust you had an enjoyable hunt?"

"I did, Claude," he replied, forcing a commanding tone to his voice.

"The Musketeer you sent ahead arrived a short time ago and informed us about . . . " Apparently he was reluctant to mention the word _assassination_ in the presence of the king, for he quickly altered his wording, " . . . about what happened during your hunt. I am so relieved to see that you are unharmed."

Philippe swallowed his apprehension, and spoke in a clear, precise voice. "My Musketeers, both current and former, have once again demonstrated great courage and determination in their efforts to protect me."

"Indeed they have, Sire. And poor Francois. What a terrible thing to happen right before the ball!"

"Yes, it was," Philippe agreed. "While I am thinking of it, send over two more bottles of Bordeaux to LaCroix. Both were dropped in the accident through no fault of his own. And see that he has whatever he needs to properly care for Francois."

"Right away, Sire."

Feeling intense eyes upon him, Philippe turned toward Girard, and found that he was gazing at him rather intently. Catching the king's eye, he quickly explained, "You appear somewhat pale, your majesty. Are you feeling ill?"

"I am very tired. We have been hunting all morning and it was a lengthy ride back to Paris. That combined with the attempt on my life has sapped my strength. I wish to retire to my room for a while to rest."

"Very good, Sire."

D'Artagnan spoke up, "See if you can locate a suitable temporary replacement for Francois. Send him to the king's chamber in one hour to prepare him for the ball."

"Consider it done, Captain."

The two men bowed again, and Philippe moved past them and entered the magnificent structure through the main doorway into the huge echoing grand hall. Although he attempted to refrain from gaping, he simply couldn't stop himself. The decorative ceiling was high with magnificent columns, the walls adorned with fine paintings and tapestries. Never in his life had he seen such fine things.

D'Artagnan saw his eyes darting from one point to another, taking everything in with childlike wonder. "Close your mouth," he muttered.

Embarrassed, Philippe complied immediately.

Servants positioned around the entry hall bowed, and the maids who were on their hands and knees scrubbing the floors in preparation for the arrival of the guests stood up to curtsey to him. As he had been instructed to do, he paid them no heed, bypassing them as if they were not there. Constantly, his mind was working, thinking back to the model of the palace that Athos had constructed for him to memorize the rooms and corridors, and without missing a step he correctly moved in the direction of the king's bedchamber, looking as if he had taken that path every day of his life. The guards standing at the entrance to the royal chambers snapped to attention and Philippe maintained a neutral expression as he glanced at them in passing.

As they neared the king's chamber, a guard stepped forward to open the door for him.

"Send for my mother, please," Philippe instructed, unable to wait any longer to meet the woman who had given him life and from whom he had been separated moments after his birth. "I wish a word with her."

The guard bowed. "Right away, your majesty." Unable to leave his post at the king's door, he gestured to the guard standing across the hall to carry out the order.

Philippe stepped into the small entry hall first, followed by D'Artagnan and Athos. The guard closed the main door behind him. Philippe indicated the second set of double doors. "Through here?" he asked. It seemed a foolish question as soon as he had spoken the words, for there were no other doors through which to pass, but neither his father nor Athos seemed to consider the query out of the ordinary for the nervous young man.

"Yes."

D'Artagnan opened them, and Philippe experienced a twinge of guilt as he stepped into his brother's bedchamber, for he was invading the personal residence of someone else. He was immediately impressed by the size of it, for it was quite large, as large as Yvette's entire cottage had been, and it contained a huge bed, a large wardrobe, and a sitting area with chairs and tables. The huge full-length portrait of a man dominated one wall from ceiling to floor, and Philippe looked with interest at it, understanding who it was even before being told.

"That is the former king," D'Artagnan confirmed. He went to the portrait and pulled back the frame, revealing that it was a secret door. "There is a secret passage behind it leading to other areas of the palace. It was installed for security purposes, and only a handful of people are aware of its existence, so if you use them you must be careful not to be seen. Later, I will take you through it to show you where it exits. And behind that wardrobe is the stairs leading up to your mistress's rooms."

Philippe nodded to indicate his understanding and swallowed hard, wondering about the woman who resided one floor above him. "That would be Christine," he said.

"Yes," Athos replied. After a moment's pause, he added, "You nearly sent my heart into my throat when you spoke to that little girl. Louis has never been known to exchange greetings with his subjects."

"I considered that," Philippe told him, "but I thought it would be a good beginning toward improving relations with the people. A small token, followed by many more."

"That lone would not have raised too many eyebrows, but there is also the matter with the old man," D'Artagnan added. "That is a very noticeable inconsistency."

"He reminded me of men I had seen in the prison shortly before they died; the sunken eyes, the sallow skin," Philippe explained, a distant look in his eyes as he recalled the horrors of the prison. "He is as much a prisoner as I was; only in his prison there are no bars that separate him from a better life. Only poverty. He is ill and he is starving to death. He needed help, and he needed it urgently. Did you see how he struggled to get up?"

D'Artagnan placed a hand on his son's shoulder. "I am very proud that you wish to help your people, but it cannot be done all at once. Tomorrow, we will discuss what will be done in the poorer sections of town, but I must urge caution. You must not take on too much at once."

"Your father is right," Athos agreed. "We cannot move too quickly without calling attention to the abrupt changes. The king's indulgence in his subjects must be a gradual change."

"And it will be so," Philippe assured him. He smiled, remembering the way the girl's face had lit up when he had spoken to her. "Did you see that child's face when I answered her greeting?"

Athos smiled, patiently. "She will remember this day for the rest of her life."

They heard the outer door open, and a voice announced, "Her majesty, the queen mother."

The guard closed the door behind her, and Philippe turned expectantly toward it, waiting anxiously for his first glimpse of his mother. Self-consciously, he straightened his jacket and smoothed down the cravat. A moment later the woman entered the room through the second set of doors, and their eyes met for the first time ever.

"Louis, I –" She stopped, a puzzled expression coming to her face as she gazed upon her son, detecting that there was something different, something that most people would overlook but which a mother would notice. Her heart quickened. "Philippe?"

"Mother," Philippe said, his voice trembling with emotion. "I have waited so long for this moment." He drew a deep shaky breath. "To finally meet you."

She went to him and placed a tentative hand on his cheek as if to confirm that he was real, that her lost son was actually standing before her. He placed a gentle hand over hers. "Philippe? Is it true?" She looked again at D'Artagnan as if for verification.

"A better opportunity than the ball presented itself," he replied. "We made the transfer during the hunt. It was necessary to bring Lieutenant Andre in on the switch, but I believe he will maintain his silence."

She looked back at Philippe, her eyes shining with tears. "My son!" she wept, joyfully, as she drew him into her arms for their first embrace. "Not a day has gone by that I have not thought of you!"

"I have thought of you as well, Mother," he replied, his arms encircling her, holding her tightly as if in desperation. "Always, I wondered what you were like, but I thought I must have been orphaned. Yvette – the woman who raised me -- she never told me anything about where I had come from."

They drew apart, and Anne looked at her son's face, as if memorizing every detail. "They took you from me as soon as you were born, and they told me that you had died moments later. A part of my soul died that day, a part that has never been fully restored until this moment." Her eyes went to D'Artagnan and then to Athos. "Thank you both for freeing my son and bringing him back to me. But I love both of my sons. What of Louis? Please tell me he is well."

"Louis is fine," D'Artagnan assured her. "Perhaps a bit frightened, but there was no way to avoid that."

Her face clouded at the thought of her older son now suffering in the iron mask. "First one son lived in the iron mask, and now the other. You promised that he will soon be free of such humiliation," she reminded him.

"You have my word. I, also, have a personal interest in his welfare."

"My lady," Athos ventured, drawing her attention from D'Artagnan. "Aramis went out yesterday to examine the location to which he will be moved. He believes that it will take minimal renovations to secure it for him, so with a little luck, he can be removed from the Bastille within a month."

"So long," she said, regretfully. "I had hoped . . . " Her voice trailed.

D'Artagnan stepped forward and grasped her hand. "I know. So did I, but I know Aramis will see that things progress as rapidly as possible. Right now, we must simply be happy that Philippe will have the opportunity to right the wrongs committed by Louis, and the people of France may know a better life. In time, it is my hope that Louis will come to understand why we had to remove him from the throne."

"That is asking a great deal of him, for he has lost everything."

"I know. It will take some time, but I am certain that he will come out of this a better man than before."

"Mother," Philippe ventured. "If there had been any other way . . . I mean, I feel badly about taking everything that is his, but --"

She smiled sadly, and clutched his arm. "I know, my son. But you mustn't concern yourself with that. You have committed no wrongdoing. Had Louis been a better king, there would have been no need to remove him. And now, we must concentrate on getting through the ball this evening. The guests will be arriving soon, and you must be ready. I heard about what happened to Francois."

"That was a remarkable accident which occurred at a truly opportune moment," D'Artagnan said, bewildered by this unique twist of fate. "It was totally unexpected, and it certainly benefits our cause."

"Then it appears as if we have the intervention and approval of a higher power than any of us," she said, her resolve strengthened by this turn of events.

"I can only assume that to be the case. I instructed Claude to find a temporary replacement for Francois. He will come to us soon to begin to prepare the king for the festivities."

She nodded approvingly. "That is good."

"Philippe will need some instruction from you before he goes to the ballroom," D'Artagnan suggested. "This is his first experience at anything like this. We have instructed him on court etiquette as much as we can, but you will likely think of things that we have not."

She smiled at her son, pleased that she had been invited to help prepare him. "I will return after you are dressed," she promised. "But now, I must prepare as well. I will see you soon."

With a final lingering gaze at her lost son, the son she had never expected to see, she returned to the door and departed.

"She is so beautiful," Philippe said, more to himself than to anyone else. "This is the happiest day of my life; to have both of my parents in the same room with me is a joy I had never expected to know."

Athos placed an affectionate hand on his shoulder. "Family is a wonderful thing, and I am pleased that there is joy in your life after all these years. But now, we must return to business. Do you remember the floor plan of the palace that I provided for you and the location of the ballroom?"

Philippe nodded, again envisioning Athos's model of the palace and the placement of the ballroom within it.

"Then you know the way. We will not be able to accompany you to the ballroom; you must go on your own."

He looked at D'Artagnan, hopefully. "Will you be there?"

"I will be there, but it will be necessary for me to keep my distance. Your mother will be there to guide you through most of this evening."

A knock at the door drew their attention, and D'Artagnan stepped into the entry way and opened the door.

A timid looking young man, hardly more than sixteen, stood nervously in the corridor. His thin body was half-bent at the waist, and D'Artagnan was unable to tell if he had stopped in a mid-bow or if he was suffering from a stomach ache. "Forgive me for intruding, but I have been instructed to prepare the king's bath. The water is heating now. Whenever he is ready . . . "

"I will tell him," D'Artagnan replied. "He will be with you shortly."

"Yes, Monsieur." The boy bent lower in a respectful bow to the Musketeer, inspiring an amused smile.

"What is your name, boy?" he asked.

"Gael."

"Gael, I am D'Artagnan, head of the king's bodyguards, so I imagine we will be seeing much of each other until Francois returns."

"Yes, _Monsieur_!" he said, breathlessly. "I know who you are."

"Are you ill?"

"No, _Monsieur_. It is just . . . well, attending to the king. My stomach feels as if it is alive!"

D'Artagnan could not help but smile at the boy's obvious awe. "Has anyone instructed you on your tasks?"

The boy shook his head. "I have been told very little except that I must help the king bathe and dress. Francois has always done this. I – I do not know precisely how much I am expected to do."

"Simply be alert to the king's needs," D'Artagnan suggested. "Do as much or as little as he requires. I must urge you, however, to be respectful of his privacy as you carry out your duties. Do not carry tales. Assisting the king is a great honor; use it wisely."

"I will," he promised, bending in another bow.

"You need not bow to me, Gael. I serve the king as well. He will join you shortly."

He closed the door, and returned to the bedchamber. "It is a young man named Gael. He will be assuming Francois' duties until he is able to return. He is very young, totally inexperienced, and terribly frightened."

"As am I," Philippe reminded him.

D'Artagnan gave him a mildly reproachful look, but did not acknowledge the comment. "As I was saying, he is also extremely nervous, for he has never performed tasks like this before, so he will likely be a bit awkward. He is preparing your bath, so whenever you are ready you may go."

Philippe sighed, unhappily. He had been dreading this as much as anything else. "It does not please me to have someone watching me while I take a bath. Or even worse, trying to help me!"

"It is not as bad as all that, Philippe," Athos said. "He will do as much or as little as you prefer, and he knows that he must be sensitive to the king's privacy to avoid the dishonor of being replaced. Let him know what you expect of him. His inexperience is in your favor. But you must be firm and specific. Louis is never indecisive."

"The king's dressing room is beyond that door," D'Artagnan said, nodding toward the far wall where another door was located. "The bath is just beyond."

Resolutely, Philippe walked to the door and waited for D'Artagnan to open it for him, then lifted his chin, squared his shoulders, and stepped into the dressing room with an outward appearance of confidence.

Gael was waiting for him and bowed deeply. "Your majesty, it is a great honor to serve you. I will strive to please you."

Philippe glanced over his shoulder at D'Artagnan, who gave an encouraging smile, then closed the door, leaving him alone with the valet.

D'Artagnan turned to Athos, and both men heaved huge sighs of relief that the exchange had been successfully carried out and Philippe was safely inside the palace, then they both laughed at their simultaneous reactions.

"It is done," Athos said. "At long last, a king is on the throne who is worthy of our service. The feeling is indescribable." He paused, growing serious again as he gazed at his best friend, whose eyes continued to express the pain of his loss. "I only regret that it was at your expense, D'Artagnan. I am humbled by your sacrifice."

"It is the price of my sin, Athos. It grieves me to know that I will likely never see Louis again, but they are both alive and well, and that is the most important thing. I only fear that Philippe will attempt to do too much too soon. He is like a young horse that has been confined its entire life, experiencing freedom for the first time."

"Well, he has the old horses to keep him in line. It may take some nipping and kicking from the four of us to teach him the value of self-restraint, but in the end, we will prevail."

Outside, the chapel bell tolled five o'clock, and the two men glanced toward the window, listening to the comforting sounds, even though they could not see it from where they stood. The guests would begin arriving within the hour.

"I must get cleaned up and into my dress uniform," D'Artagnan said when the last chime had died away.

"I will remain here and wait for the king," Athos offered.

"Thank you, my friend. I will return as soon as I can."

D'Artagnan left the king's bedchamber and moved down the corridor to his own room. Just as he turned to enter, he saw Lieutenant Andre walking swiftly toward him, so he motioned his subordinate to enter the room with him.

"This prisoner has been safely delivered, Captain," Andre reported, closing the door behind him. "He has been taken to an empty tower room on the fourth level. Per your instructions, he is completely isolated from other prisoners and will be attended only by the deaf-mute."

D'Artagnan nodded, regretting that his son must be treated so terribly. "Is he well?" he asked, his voice soft with concern.

"A bit apprehensive, but he is bearing up to it. So far, he has been very quiet. I think the talks you had with him at the last, about his behavior and eventually removing the mask, have influenced him." He hesitated briefly. "Captain, will he truly be removed from the Bastille, in time?"

"Yes. We have located a place to which he will be removed after it has been renovated to prevent his escape. I do not think I could have gone along with this plan if it included keeping him in the mask for the rest of his life. I could not bear knowing such a thing."

Andre could easily see the pain in his commanding officer's eyes at the thought of the deposed king being confined in the mask forever. "You have served him since he was born, and he has allowed you to speak to him in ways that no one else dared. I believe he respects you as no other. It is almost . . . " His voice trailed, and he smiled rather sheepishly. "This may sound strange, but sometimes it was almost as if he regarded you as a second father, someone to look up to."

D'Artagnan smiled, sadly. "That is not so strange, Lieutenant. I never married and never experienced the joys of fatherhood, so it is probably true that I have grown closer to Louis than I should have. It is no secret that I love him almost like a son, for I have devoted my life to looking after his safety. That is what makes this so difficult. Did the sight of the mask generate curiosity?"

"Yes, the guards were quite curious, but as you ordered, I explained that he was a political prisoner and that he should be well treated but kept isolated. I also told them that you would forward written orders to them tomorrow, since there will be little time tonight with the ball."

"Good."

"How is the king doing?"

D'Artagnan knew he was referring to Philippe. "He is a bit apprehensive as well, but he is settling in. The true test will be at the ball to see how he handles himself among so many guests, but I have every confidence that he will fine."

The lieutenant lowered his gaze to the floor, still experiencing traces nervousness about what they were doing. "This is a very dangerous thing we have done," he said.

D'Artagnan walked slowly to the window and gazed out at the lawn, where he had watched Anne walk to the chapel every evening, but now his thoughts were with Louis, confined in a dank, dark prison where he would be kept in isolation for perhaps a month or more. "Dangerous and personally difficult," he said. "We have all lived through dangerous events before, but when I first became a Musketeer, I would never have imagined myself doing such a thing as we have done. But I believe it was the right thing for everyone involved, and especially for the country. Already, our king is attempting to help those with the greatest need. Tomorrow, we will work on the details." He turned his head to look as the lieutenant. "You saved my life earlier," he added. "I want you to know that I appreciate that."

"It is nothing. You would have done the same," Andre replied with a dismissive gesture. "I appreciate that you and the others have taken me into your confidence on this matter. In spite of my initial misgivings, I am honored to be included in this effort, for we have truly changed the course of history."

_The course of history has been changed in more ways than you realize_, D'Artagnan thought, then answered, "That we have, but now we must both change into dress uniform. The ball will begin shortly. Where are Aramis and Porthos?"

"They accompanied me back to the palace, and said they were going to secure the passages, and that they would be in the ballroom keeping an eye on things."

"Good. I will see you shortly."

Andre slipped out of the room, but D'Artagnan lingered at the window, his thoughts remaining for a time with the son he had loved since birth. It would not be easy for Louis during his confinement, but the ray of light at the end would be his eventual removal from the prison.


	27. Chapter Twenty Seven

**A/N:** Sorry for the delay, but this was a difficult chapter to write. I was uncertain how much of the original story I wanted to include in this, so after much trial and error, I came up with a combination of old and new that I think works adequately.

* * *

Chapter Twenty Seven

The sound of music drifted cheerfully along the palace corridors from the ballroom as D'Artagnan stepped from his room. The orchestra was in place, and ball was underway. He had seen enough of them during his service to easily imagine the swirling, costumed guests and the flowing gowns of the women on the dance floor. A ball given by the king was always a grand affair, and everyone would be dressed in costumes made of the finest fabrics available and adorned with their most dazzling jewelry.

When he reached the door to the king's chamber, he paused to smooth down his clothing and straighten the long cloak that floated gracefully behind him when he walked. The uniform had been meticulously cleaned and his boots thoroughly polished. Anne was probably already there with their son, awaiting his return, and it was important that he be more than merely presentable, especially in her presence. When he was satisfied with his appearance, he opened the door and stepped into the entryway, pulling the door closed behind him. Then he opened the second set of doors and moved into the king's sitting area.

As expected, the queen mother and Athos were waiting there. Anne was standing at the window gazing out across the lawn, but she turned when she heard the door open. Athos was pacing restlessly back and forth the length of the sitting area, and like the queen mother, he paused when he heard the doors open, then resumed his impatient walk. Philippe had not yet returned from the dressing room.

"Heis still getting dressed," Athos responded to the unspoken question in his best friend's eyes. "It seems to be taking a very long time," he added, nervously.

"I wouldn't worry," Anne said. "It takes time to prepare the king, and the young valet is new and inexperienced, so it may take a little longer."

D'Artagnan's eyes were riveted upon the queen mother, irresistibly drawn to her. She was dressed in a lovely formal blue and gold gown accented with sapphire earrings, a beautiful sapphire necklace, and a gold filigree tiara. She looked as exquisite as he had ever seen her, and he had to resist the urge to go to her and take her into his arms. They were in the palace, where interruption was always possible, and they must not be seen in an open display of affection. "Anne, you look beautiful," he said.

She smiled happily in response to the compliment, and her she admired D'Artagnan's uniform with its floor length blue cloak with white trim and red lining. "And you look very handsome in your dress uniform," she responded.

Athos looked from one to the other, witnessing the full scope of the affection each felt for the other; the love his life, D'Artagnan had said that day at the river. In his expression, it was easy to see that it was the truth, and that his love for her was returned fully, for her eyes were shining with a devotion reserved only for the love of a lifetime. They did not run into each other's arms as young lovers might, but maintained a distance that mirrored the forbidden nature of their love, yet the affection between them permeated the room, and their simple compliments held a greater degree of meaning than mere admiration.

Athos lowered his gaze, feeling as though he was intruding on a very private moment, even though the pair had done nothing to induce such a notion. He had experienced that perfect love which had resulted in the creation of another life, and following her death he had devoted all his time to raising their son. A son who was now gone, taken from him in the cruelest way possible.

He sighed heavily with longing, wishing he could touch his son's face just once more, to tell him how much he had meant to him. He only vaguely remembered that terrible day when the letter had arrived in the middle of the night bearing the news of his son's death on the front lines, and he only vaguely recalled the ride to the Musketeer's compound with the intent to assassinate the king in an overpowering desire to make him suffer the same fate.

His head came up suddenly, remembering the young Musketeers he had wounded that day as they had executed their job of protecting the king. With his knife, he had cut off the earlobe of one of them, then turned and flung the knife at a young man coming up behind him. It had imbedded in his chest in what was almost certainly a serious wound. What had become of those two men? Like Raoul, they likely had family, parents, siblings, perhaps even wives or sweethearts who cared about them. He needed to know their fate.

"D'Artagnan," he began, but before he could say more, the door to the king's dressing room opened, and he, D'Artagnan, and Ann all turned expectantly toward it. Philippe stepped into his chamber dressed in the gold and white patterned coat and breeches with matching laced knee boots. Rounding out the costume was the flowing floor-length red cape. He carried a pair of soft white gloves, and fumbled them nervously in his hands.

"That will be all, Gael," he said to the servant. "You may retire."

Gael bowed with an expression of relief on his face. D'Artagnan realized that this had been a difficult experience for the young servant as well, who was striving to please his king and fearful that he might do something wrong. Louis was not known for being forgiving of mistakes. "As you wish, your majesty." He pulled the door closed, leaving Philippe alone with the others.

The queen mother moved closer to her son. "Let us have a look at you," she requested.

"I look ridiculous in this costume," he complained and he turned slowly around, allowing her and the others to examine his appearance.

"Nonsense," Athos said, gruffly as he adjusted the fancy cravat so that it lay properly beneath Philippe's chin. "You look fine. It is a costume ball; you are supposed to look ridiculous. Trust me, there will be people wearing clothes more ludicrous than this. Take Porthos, for example. He was going to be Aramis's dance partner, and had originally intended to wear a woman's dress over his regular clothing!"

Philippe gave a nervous laugh as he faced the mirror again to scrutinize the outfit his brother had selected to wear to the ball. "I would like to have seen that, especially with his mustache! That would have been funny."

Athos shrugged, amused. "Well, his face would have been covered with a mask, but since there is no longer any need for anonymity, I doubt that he will wear it."

"It is almost time," D'Artagnan said. "Your guests are here and the dancing has commenced. I could hear the music from the corridor." The gold laurel wreath was not sitting properly on Philippe's head, so he removed it, smoothed down his long golden brown hair, and repositioned it.

Athos gave one final perusal of his appearance, and made a few minor adjustments in his costume where necessary. "I think you are ready."

Anne stood in front of him, tears of joy welling in her eyes. In her hand was the gold mask he would carry into the ballroom. "You look very handsome, Philippe," she said, softly.

"He looks terrified," Athos contradicted.

"That is because I am," Philippe admitted. "I have only just now realized how many people I must fool into thinking that I am Louis. There is a whole ballroom full of guests who are familiar with him, who know what he looks like, who know his mannerisms. Not to mention the staff and advisors. What if one of them notices something is amiss?"

"Ease your mind, Philippe," D'Artagnan assured him. "You know how Louis behaves, and – Listen to me!" he said sharply to gain the young man's attention. When Philippe's eyes darted to his father, he continued, "No one is allowed to get too close to the king, so do not concern yourself that someone might notice any minor physical differences between you. The only person who will see you up close is the person you will dance with." He then deferred to the queen. "Anne? Is there anything you need to add?"

She nodded, placing the mask in Philippe's hand. "Your dancing partner tonight is the daughter of the Marquis de Archambalt. Her name is Genevieve."

"Genevieve," Philippe's lips repeated the word, but the pronunciation was hardly more than a whisper. "Daughter of Marquis de Archambalt." He grimaced, feeling suddenly overwhelmed. "There are so many names to remember! How can I be expected to remember them all?"

D'Artagnan placed a firm hand on his son's shoulder in a reassuring grasp in an attempt to calm his frustration. "There are not so many as that," he said in a soothing voice. "Do not underestimate yourself. You are doing very well. We will go over those that you must know. Do you remember the names of your two advisors?"

"Claude and . . . " He had to pause to think a moment. The first was easy because he had been told of him while still at the village, but he had only heard the name of the other a short time ago, the dark-haired man in the red coat. "Gerard."

"Very good. What is the name of the man who hosted the king's hunt this afternoon?"

"La Croix. He will be here as well?"

"Yes. He, his wife, and their older daughter will be attending. The others are too young. And your dance partner?"

"Genevieve, daughter of de Archambalt."

"Very good. Those are the primary ones you must know."

"I will be at your side to help you, Philippe," Anne said. "If someone approaches that Louis would know by name, I will speak his name first or whisper it to you if there is time. That is unlikely to happen, though."

"Genevieve," he repeated his dance partner's name again. "Has Louis met her?"

"Once, briefly, during a banquet hosted by Louis several weeks ago. He invited her to the ball as his special guest."

"How will I know her?" he asked. "Am I supposed to go to her, or will she come to me?"

"You will go directly to the throne. She will come to you. A seat for her has been provided and will be located on your left as you are sitting, but it is unlikely that she will use it. A young woman does not wish to wrinkle a formal gown by sitting on it, so she will stand nearby until you invite her to dance."

Philippe's eyebrow went up. "She would stand all evening? Isn't it very tiring to stand that long?"

Anne laughed, softly. "You have no knowledge of what it is like to be a young woman, especially one offered such a prestigious honor as being escorted by the king. She will stand all night, if need be!"

"That is why women have been known to faint during these balls, especially during the heat of the summer," Athos added with a wink. "They wear many layers of garments, much too heavy and usually much too tight at the waist, so it is no wonder they eventually succumb to the exhaustion of standing for so long."

"They would rather faint than sit down?" Philippe asked, incredulously.

D'Artagnan patted his shoulder, reassuringly. "Do not attempt to understand it, Philippe," he said with a smile. "Women and men were not intended to understand one another. Now, for appearances sake, you must dance with her at least one time. Louis loves to dance, and it would appear odd if he did not go to the dance floor at least once."

"What if she brings up a subject that she and Louis discussed? She will think it strange if I have no knowledge of it."

"Not necessarily," Anne told him. "Louis is not known for his attentiveness, and there have been many occasions where he was thinking of other things during a conversation and therefore had no recollection of it. Everyone expects that the king will have important things on his mind. Merely apologize and say that you had forgotten."

Aware of his son's lack of experience with women and with large crowds, D'Artagnan said, "If you wish, you may have one or two dances, and then politely dismiss her. However, you must remain in good standing with the Marquis, so offer her a generous compliment, and then politely excuse yourself back to the throne."

Athos spoke up, "Tell her you strained your back during the hunt this afternoon, and that you are not in good form to continue dancing."

"Excellent idea, Athos," D'Artagnan said.

"Her feelings may be hurt by this," Anne said, considering how the young woman would feel to be abandoned by her escort during a party. "Encourage her to continue to enjoy the ball, and assure her that you will call on her to be your dance partner for your next ball, so that she may retain her honor. By then, you will be more comfortable in your position."

"Thank you," Philippe said, gratefully. "What about Christine?" he asked, wondering about this mistress his brother had kept and whom he had yet to see. If he encountered her and did not recognize her, it could pose a threat to his security. "Will she be attending the ball?"

"No. Louis did not extend her an invitation," Anne replied. "She is not a noble, so she will remain in her rooms for the evening, but she will be expected to leave the palace soon. Probably within a few days."

"It is unlikely that you will have any contact with her," D'Artagnan told him. "Louis has been planning to send her back to her mother's home."

Philippe pondered this for several moments, recalling the information that his father and Athos had told him about her. "Did you tell me that her mother and sister are ill?"

"Yes."

"Will it be all right if I made certain they are being cared for?"

"We will discuss that later," Anne told him. "First, we have to get you through the ball."

Athos gripped his shoulders in an affectionate but attention-gaining shake. "Philippe, you must stop asking things like this. You are the king! You may do whatever you wish, and you need no one's permission to do it. If you wish her to remain, then she will remain. But remember this: Christine was his mistress for some time. She knows him in a very intimate way and is familiar with his moods and other very personal details. If there is one person in this palace who could expose you as an imposter, it would be her. You cannot keep her as a mistress."

"I wasn't planning to," Philippe replied. "I just do not want her thrown out so cruelly. I do not even have to speak to her or go near her. I just feel she is owed some compensation for how she was treated."

D'Artagnan slowly nodded his head in understanding. "As your mother said, we can speak of her later, but right now, your guests are waiting."

Philippe felt his heartbeat step up a few notches, and he took several deep breaths to calm himself.

"It will be all right, son," D'Artagnan said, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Wait five minutes while I inspect the ballroom for security threats, then you may come."

"Will you accompany me?" Philippe asked his mother.

"The king makes his entrance alone," she replied. "If you had a wife, she would join you at the door, and you would enter together, but since you do not you will walk to the throne by yourself. I will join you in ten or fifteen minutes. When you arrive, you will not enter immediately. You will pause first and wait until you are noticed, which will only be a matter of seconds. The guests will then bow to you, and as they do this, you will approach the throne. The orchestra is positioned on your right as you enter the ballroom. A door to your left will lead to the banquet room where the food will be set up for the guests to enjoy."

When she paused, Athos spoke up, "When you go to the banquet, you must allow the servants to fill your plate. Remember, Philippe, the servants serve the king. That is what they do, and you must allow them to do it."

"I will," he replied a bit distractedly.

"Forgive my persistence, but you have been accustomed to doing things for yourself, and that is a hard habit to break," Athos insisted. "Your mind is going to be preoccupied with many things, and it is all too easy to simply reach for something without thinking. Remember, let the servants get whatever you want."

"I will," Philippe repeated.

The queen mother smiled lovingly at her son. "I will be with him, and will see him through his first banquet."

D'Artagnan moved toward the door, but paused before Anne to gently caress her cheek with his fingers. "I wish I could escort you to the ball on my arm," he said, longingly.

She placed her hand lovingly over his as she gazed into his eyes. "As do I," she agreed.

With a final, lingering gaze at her, he returned to the door and stepped into the corridor again, then approached the ballroom, following the music from the orchestra that had been hired to entertain the guests. He entered through the double doors of the main entrance.

The ballroom was awhirl with beautiful swirling dresses and costumes of all types. Every guest wore a mask, either held against the face with a string around the head or held in place with a lorgnette, concealing his or her face from view, a disadvantage in D'Artagnan's mind, one that called for intense scrutiny of each guest, and he paused just inside the door to scan the crowd, carefully inspecting the costumes for places in which a weapon might be concealed.

Positioned at various intervals around the room, Musketeers stood rigidly at attention in dress uniform, but he noticed the longing expressions on the faces of some of the younger ones, and understood that they were wishing they could join the dancing. Aramis and Porthos were guarding the door to the banquet room, and they each gave a nod of acknowledgement when they saw him.

Moving along the wall to avoid interfering with the dancers, he made his way toward his friends. "How does everything look?" he asked.

"Everything looks secure," Aramis replied. "We've been keeping an eye on things ever since we arrived, and have seen no breaches in security."

"I am glad you are here. My young musketeers are good, but I dare say they would rather be on the dance floor than guarding it, so your experience is a valuable asset."

"We are happy to help," Porthos told him, sincerely. "How is he doing?"

"He is getting ready." His eyes continued to scan the crowd until they finally settled on one Musketeer in particular, one who took his position so seriously that he appeared to have no interest in joining the festivities.

Lieutenant Andre was standing quietly to one side, his eyes constantly inspecting the variety of guests and costumes, searching for anything or anyone that might pose a danger to the king.

"I will check back with you from time to time, but if you notice anything suspicious, summon me at once." Leaving his friends, he moved toward Andre. "Lieutenant?" he said as he reached the younger officer.

"Everything is progressing as planned, Captain. I checked out the guest list and observed every individual as they arrived, and everything is secure."

"Good. The king will be arriving in a few minutes."

The two Musketeers watched the spinning, swirling crowd of guests as they danced about the large room, and a few minutes later the orchestra abruptly fell silent. The crowd stopped dancing, and instantly the guests parted, every one of them bowing respectfully as they opened a path down the center of the room.

The king stood in the doorway, the gold mask held in front of his face by its lorgnette. D'Artagnan could see his blue eyes through the eyeholes, darting nervously around the room. They came to rest briefly on the captain, as if relieved to see him there, then proceeded to observe the subjects who bowed before him.

It was a unique and peculiar sensation for the young man to watch the noble men and women of France as they bowed and curtseyed before him, for he had never experienced such a public show of respect. Somehow, it had been different as he had ridden into Paris a few hours ago, for the bowing had seemed more like a greeting than the formal display of respect and reverence that he was seeing now.

After a long moment, he withdrew the mask from his face and began the long walk toward the throne which was positioned on the dais against the opposite wall, flanked by two smaller seats. The guests remained rigid in their bow, and as he neared each one, they lowered their heads, not looking directly into his face.

D'Artagnan felt his heart swell with pride as he watched his son making that walk down the long path toward the throne. Philippe appeared slightly apprehensive, but it was only visible in the eyes, and since most people were frozen in their bow, this went unnoticed. His posture was erect and confident, and each step was precise.

Philippe kept his eyes riveted on that ornate chair that seemed so far away. The moments crawled slowly by as he carefully placed one foot in front of the other, concentrating on keeping his back straight and his head carried high, and trying not to think of how slowly his progress across the room was. His walk was deliberate and authoritative, for the king would not rush, but finally, at the end of that long walk he reached the dais. Carefully, he walked up the steps onto the platform and turned slowly to face the crowd. As long as he remained standing, they remained rigidly bent at the waist. His eyes moved slowly among them, picking out faces that he recognized. Claude was near the orchestra, and Gerard was across the room, both dressed in their finest. Aramis and Porthos were there as well near the door to the room he had been told was the banquet hall.

Mindful of the long flowing cloak so that he would not step on the hem or trip on it, he moved to the throne and sank onto it. Laying aside the mask, he said softly, "Continue."

The orchestra immediately began playing again, a lively, cheerful tune, and the guests resumed their dancing. Moments later, an attractive young dark haired woman approached the dais and curtseyed before him. Her dress was yellow, trimmed in white, and adorned with pearls and diamonds. Atop her head, a tiara stood out strikingly against her dark hair. The gold mask, similar to the one Philippe carried, was held by its lorgnette in her small, slender hands. Her countenance and costume indicated a woman of high standing.

"It is good to see you again, your majesty," she said.

"It is good to see you again, Genevieve," he replied in acknowledgement, hoping it was the daughter of the Marquis to whom he was speaking.

Apparently, he had made a good guess, for she stepped onto the platform and stood beside him, watching the crowd of guests and waiting for the king to invite her to dance. Although a seat was prepared for her, she did not take it, as Anne had predicted.

Philippe was quiet for several minutes watching the dancers on the floor and stealing discrete glances at her, wondering if he was supposed to carry on a conversation with her. Or would Louis have remained silent? It seemed rude not to say something, so he asked, "I trust you are enjoying the ball?"

She flashed a charming smile his direction. "Oh, very much, your majesty," she replied with an appropriate amount of enthusiasm in her voice. Her youthful face was shining with excitement, and he knew that she was waiting for him to request a dance.

"And how are your father and your dear mother?" Now that he had met his own for the very first time, every mother was considered dear to him. Then a brief moment of panic rippled through him when he realized that he had not been informed whether or not the girl's mother was still living.

"Very well, your majesty," she said in answer to his question. "They will be pleased that you asked."

Philippe breathed an inner sigh of relief that his inquiry had not turned into a faux pas, and turned his attention to the dancers again. He did not know the steps to the dance that was underway, so he waited until it ended and the next dance began. He was familiar with this one, so he stood up and offered his gloved hand to Genevieve, who slipped her small hand delicately into his. How different her small hand felt in comparison with Athos's larger one!

Together, with their masks held in front of their faces, he and Genevieve descended the platform steps, and the crowd instantly backed away to make room for them. He then turned toward his partner, and began the dance steps that Athos had taught him.

D'Artagnan watched his son with approving eyes, pleased with his poise and his countenance.

"He is doing well," Athos said quietly in his ear.

He turned his head, surprised that his friend had joined him in the ballroom. Keeping his voice low, he replied, "Yes, he is. Better even than he himself had expected. You taught him well. Thank you for being here."

Athos smiled. "I would not miss seeing the fruit of all those hours of training."

They shifted their attention back to the king, watching as he continued to dance. He made only one error, stepping briefly on the hem of Genevieve's dress. He flashed an apologetic grin at Athos and offered verbal apology to Genevieve, who giggled delightedly that the king could make such a mistake.

On the other side of the room, near the banquet hall doors, Gerard had seen the king's error and his amused reaction to it, and felt suddenly uneasy. A slight frown creased his brow. In all his years of service, he had never once seen the king step on the hem or the foot of his dance partner. Louis was a skilled dancer, and considered himself above such errors. It seemed especially peculiar that the king would express amusement of this, for he typically ignored his own mistakes as if they had not occurred.

The advisor looked around quickly to gauge the reaction of the other guests and servants in attendance. Everyone else who had witnessed it was smiling appreciatively that Louis had made an error and acknowledged it with humor. In particular, he focused his attention on D'Artagnan, and saw him standing with Athos. Both were smiling, as if the event was quite normal.

Gerard relaxed. D'Artagnan probably knew the king better than anyone, save his mistresses, and if the captain was amused then there was no cause for concern. Perhaps an error like that was bound to happen sooner or later. No one was perfect, after all, not even the king. And even the king had his moments of good humor.

The rest of the dance was performed without error, and when it ended, Philippe took the young woman's hand and brushed his lips lightly across her knuckles. "You dance very well, Genevieve. I believe you are the most ideal dance partner I have ever had, but regrettably I must retire."

Her smile at the generous compliment faded into surprise and then into concern. "Sire, have I done something to offend?"

"No. You are a delight, my dear, an absolute delight, but I strained my back during the hunt this afternoon and it is giving me some discomfort. I encourage you to enjoy the dance and the feast, but I would prefer to watch the festivities rather than participate in them. Please accept my sincere apologies."

She curtseyed, but her disappointment was vivid on her face. "Of course, your majesty. I hope you will soon be feeling better."

"I am certain I shall. However, if you would do me the honor, I would like to call upon you to join me at a future ball. I will do my best to avoid injury next time."

She smiled brightly, reassured that she was not being dismissed due to his displeasure with her. "It is I who would be honored, your majesty."

Philippe returned to the throne with his hand strategically placed just above the small of his back to give illusion to an injury, while Genevieve disappeared into the swirling masses of guests.

The music changed to another dance, one in which the guests formed two lines and clasped hands overhead to form an arch through which each one passed. Philippe watched with interest, for this was a new dance to him. It looked like great fun, but he knew that the king would not participate in a dance which involved such close proximity with his subjects.

One by one, the guests left the head of the line to rush beneath the arch of clasped hands, and then took a position at the foot of the line and raised their hands into the arch again. Abruptly, a rather large woman, rushing excitedly beneath the arch, lost her footing and fell against the dais steps. Instinctively, reacting without considering the consequences, the young king shoved himself out of his chair, and with an amused smile, he offered his hand to assist her to her feet.

The woman looked up, startled beyond words by the gesture, but she did not take his hand as she pushed herself into a seated position on the steps. The smile slowly faded from Philippe's face as he suddenly became aware of the silence in the room. The entire dance floor had stopped to look at him incredulously, and many were glancing at their partners in disbelief. Straightening up, he dismissed the woman with a curt nod of his head, but the damage was done.

Turning to look at his father, he saw that D'Artagnan had closed his eyes with a grim expression. Athos, standing beside him, gave a slight shake of his head, his expression very stern. Near the banquet doors, Aramis had placed a hand over his eyes, as if unable to watch the aftermath of his blunder. Porthos was simply staring with his mouth hanging open. Lieutenant Andre was glancing quickly about, as if concerned that they were about to be exposed. Philippe realized with a jolt that he had committed a serious gaffe, one which had done more than raise eyebrows; it had brought the entire room to a stand-still!

That uneasy feeling that Gerard had experienced earlier came crashing down on him again. He had never known Louis to do such a thing! His eyes sought out Claude, and found his colleague was looking at him. As their eyes met, Claude shrugged, indicating that he had never witnessed anything like this before, either.

"The Queen Mother!"

The abrupt announcement heralded the presence of the king's mother, and all heads turned toward the door once again, where Anne stood regally in her beautiful gown and sapphires, her eyes fixed on her son. Her timing could not have been more perfect. So rare were her public appearances that Philippe's mistake was apparently forgotten as the crowd parted once again, providing her with a clear path to the throne platform.

Grateful for the reprieve, Philippe moved to the edge of the dais to formally greet his mother. With grace and elegance, she made her way through the parted crowd, and when she reached the platform, she gazed lovingly up at him for several moments, then extended her hand toward him. He grasped her hand and pressed his lips against it.

On the dance floor, the guests were watching, smiling as the king expressed his affection for the woman who had given birth to him, but across the room Gerard, aware of the king's neglect of his mother, continued to observe with interest as the king escorted her onto the platform, and then they sat down together, still holding hands.

Claude suddenly broke the silence. "God bless the king and the queen mother!"

With resounding unison, the other guests joined in the chant: "God bless the king and the queen mother!"

The music and dancing resumed while Philippe and the queen mother watched. They continued to hold hands, each of them cherishing the closeness of the other.

"Are you enjoying the ball, my son?" she asked.

"Very much," he replied. "But even more now that you have joined me."

Turning her head, she gazed at him for a long time, pleased with his response. All around her, the music and the dancing filled the room, but she barely noticed them. For the moment, her attention was directed exclusively on her son, taking in every detail of his features. There were physical differences in his appearance and Louis', but they were differences that only a parent or very close friend would notice; a slight difference in the arch of the eyebrows, which gave Philippe a gentler expression, a tiny scar near the corner of his eye perhaps caused by the mask, a slight difference in the shape of the mouth. The biggest difference of all was in personality. Philippe had his own unique persona, a kind and gentle soul, which was being deliberately suppressed and was struggling desperately to get out. She could see that kindness reflected in his eyes, and she had no doubt that the people of France would grow to love him in ways that had eluded Louis.

A tear welled in her eye as her thoughts drifted to her other son, but she fought it back. She must not think of him right now. D'Artagnan had promised that he would soon be moved to a better place, and that she would be permitted to visit him. Holding on to that knowledge, she shifted her gaze to the father of her sons.

Seeing that he had her attention, he dipped his head in a formal bow of acknowledgment that carefully concealed his true feelings. Then, both of them directed their attention to the swirling dancers on the floor.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

The ball was finally over. The queen mother had retired an hour earlier to her chamber and the last of the guests had just departed. The musicians were putting away their instruments, and the servants were waiting to clean up the banquet hall and the ballroom as soon as the king departed from it. Philippe breathed a sigh of relief; he had passed the first test, albeit by the skin of his teeth.

The sigh had barely escaped his lips when D'Artagnan appeared at his side. "You did well, your majesty," he said, quietly.

"I am just glad it is over," he replied.

"Come, I will escort you to your room."

Philippe rose from the throne and stepped down off the platform. With his father at his side, he made his way through the long elaborate corridors toward his apartments. The guard opened the door, and they entered. Someone had lit the candles in the wall sconces and table holders, anticipating his return, and the room was well lit.

"You did well tonight, Philippe," he said when they were inside and the doors securely closed behind them. "I am very proud of you."

"I made a few mistakes," he acknowledged.

"Yes, you did, but you got yourself out of them. The only serious infraction involved that woman who fell. Your instinct was to immediately help her, as a gentleman would do, but you must try to remember that Louis would not react in such a way. Someone else would have helped her up, and if it appeared that no one was going to, you could have indicated that you wished someone to help her, and your directive would have been instantly obeyed. You are too impulsive. You must stop and consider how others are going to react to the things you do."

Philippe listened to his father's words, spoken in a kind way, and nodded his agreement. "I know. This goes with what Athos was saying about my mind being preoccupied and doing things without thinking. I will do better."

D'Artagnan smiled. "I know you will. It is difficult to separate your life as Philippe with your life as Louis, but it will become easier as time goes by. In the meantime, you must always think before you act."

Philippe smiled back at his father. "I will."

D'Artagnan drew his son into a heartfelt embrace and kissed his cheeks. "I am glad you are here, son. But now, I must leave you. The hour grows late."

"Where are your rooms?"

"My room is just down the corridor. If you need me, merely send for me and I will arrive at once."

"What time am I expected to rise?"

"Whenever you feel like it," D'Artagnan answered. "Louis keeps no schedule. If he has a late night, he sleeps later in the morning. If you sleep too long, I will come for you." He turned and started back toward the door.

"Father?"

He stopped and turned back, his eyebrows lifting in an unspoken question.

"I will see you in the morning?" It was spoken as a question instead of a statement.

D'Artagnan smiled again. "You will see me in the morning. Goodnight, your majesty."

"Good night."

Philippe watched as D'Artagnan went through the first set of double doors and closed them behind him. A moment later, he heard the second set of doors close, and found himself alone in his brother's bed chamber for the first time.

Still wide awake from the excitement of the ball, he wandered slowly around the room, examining the décor. As expected, every piece of furniture was of the highest quality available, and adorned with rich fabrics.

He turned toward the large bed, noticing as he did that someone had been in to turn down the covers for him. He was already accustomed to this, for at the village, Angelina or one of her sisters had always turned down the covers in the evening and then made the bed during breakfast the next morning. He had presumed that it would be the case here, as well. The bed drapery had been pulled on one side, shielding the king's sleeping area from anyone who might enter through the doors.

Moving to the other side, Philippe saw a clean white nightshirt was lying on the foot of the bed, so he undressed and put it on without waiting for Gael to assist him. It was far more elaborately made than any he had ever worn, but found it surprisingly comfortable. The costume was placed on a chair, then he went through the large room blowing out most of the lamps and candles. Just as he was preparing to climb into bed, he heard a tentative knock at the door from the king's dressing room, as if the person on the other side was fearful of disturbing him. He paused and turned toward it, uncertain if he had actually heard it. A moment later, there was another quiet knock.

"Who is it?" he called.

"It is Gael, your majesty," came the soft reply. "If you are ready, I will prepare you for bed."

"You may enter, but I have already dressed for bed."

The door opened, and Gael stepped into the room with an expression of panic on his youthful face. "Your majesty! I was to help you undress! I have failed in my duty!"

"No, Gael," Philippe assured him quickly, silently cursing his thoughtlessness. Both D'Artagnan and Athos had warned him about being impulsive, and Athos had specifically stated that he must allow the servants to do their jobs. It was he who had failed, not Gael. "You did not fail. I was tired, and decided not to wait for you."

That had been the wrong thing to say. "I was tardy!" Gael lamented. "Forgive me, your majesty. It will not happen again!"

"It is all right, Gael. I assure you, you were not tardy and you are not going to be reprimanded." He grimaced, thinking that his voice sounded almost like he was the one begging for forgiveness. Gesturing toward the chair where he had placed his clothing, he tried to adopt a more haughty approach. "My costume is there on the chair. You may have it cleaned tomorrow, but for now you may retire. I will summon you when I am ready to dress in the morning."

Gael bowed, gratefully. "Thank you, your majesty." Quickly, he gathered up the articles of clothing and draped them over his arm, then returned to the door. Pausing, he looked back at the king. "Good night, your majesty."

"Good night," Philippe replied.

After Gael had closed the door, the new king went to his bed, but did not immediately retire. Instead, he knelt down at his bedside and prayed for the health and well-being of his brother Louis. Then, he crossed himself and climbed wearily into bed. Leaning toward the bedside table, he blew out the lamp, but as he settled back on his pillow, his thoughts lingered on his brother, who had lost everything. He, Philippe, was now lying in the comfortable bed, reclining on a small mountain of feather pillows, while Louis was lying on a prison cot in a lonely corner of the Bastille.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Louis sat huddled miserably on the hard, narrow bed in the corner of his cell. Unable to find a comfortable position in which to sleep in the mask, he sat with his back to the wall, his arms wrapped around his legs, and his forehead resting on his knees. No, that was not quite accurate. It was the forehead of the cursed mask which rested against his knees, almost painfully in its hardness. His body trembled slightly, not from cold, but from fear and rage and an unquenchable thirst for revenge against those who had done this to him.

How could this have happened? What had he done to deserve such harsh treatment? It was true that he, as king, had dealt out punishments to traitors and perpetrators, sometimes harshly, but it had been necessary to maintain control over those who would incite rebellion. It was simply the way of things, the way he had been taught. But the rebellion had come from an unexpected source within – incited by his most trusted servant, D'Artagnan, and his own twin brother. _I should have had you killed,_ he thought angrily of his brother._ Instead, I was merciful to let you live, and this is how you repay me!_

An iron gate slammed somewhere down the corridor, jarring him out of his thoughts. Lifting his head, he heard approaching footsteps and then a few moments later the metal panel that covered the small window on the cell door opened, and a face pressed against the bars. The face was grotesque in the flickering light provided by the candle that was carried in his hand and held aloft so that he could see into the cell.

Recognizing him as his jailer, Louis did not attempt to communicate with him. He had tried that earlier, threatening and bribing the man to help free him, but it had quickly become apparent that the jailer could neither hear nor speak. Further attempts to speak to him would be useless.

A moment later, the face disappeared, and the window was closed with a resounding "clang". Darkness settled over the cell again, and he listened as the man's footsteps retreated down the corridor again. The iron gate screeched open on rusty hinges and was slammed again a moment later.

The deaf-mute had brought supper to him several hours earlier, consisting of beef and bread and a mug of stale water, but everything was still sitting on the small table he had been provided, barely touched. Eating had been difficult, necessitating small bites and forcing it through the opening, a sloppy way to eat in his opinion. Drinking from the mug had resulted in spilling it into the mask so that it ran down his chin and dribbled out the bottom.

Irritably, he rubbed his fist against his chin, as if to wipe away the wetness that had since dried, but his hand came in contact with the iron shell that surrounded his head. In frustration, he seized the neck piece in both hands and tugged at it, attempting to remove it, even though he knew such an effort was futile. Finally, exhausted, he released it and allowed his hands to drop to his sides as his chest heaved with hopelessness.

Never in his entire life had he felt so alone. In this dank, dark tower room, he was completely isolated from anyone else. It was a large room, one of the largest in the Bastille, and he knew that it was typically used to house groups of prisoners. Following D'Artagnan's orders, they had placed him here, where he would have plenty of room to move about, but that knowledge brought him no comfort. _I should not be here at all!_ a voice screamed inside his head, mingling with the mournful cries made by other prisoners.

He could hear them constantly, echoing from other corridors, muffled by the distance as they wailed their misery and cursed their jailers. He could not hear the words, only the chilling, high-pitched voices. Some, he knew, were insane, driven mad by their confinement or perhaps it had been their madness that had resulted in their imprisonment. Either way, many of those very men he was housed with would take great pleasure in ending his life, a thought which caused his heart to beat faster. How many of these prisoners had he personally condemned to this wretched place?

There was no window on this level, only a slanting ventilation shaft to offer air and a small circle of moonlight on the straw-covered floor. His eyes settled disdainfully on the straw, thinking it more resembled a stable than a confinement suited to a king. They would pay for this, he vowed. They would pay dearly.

A sound caught his attention; the scurrying of tiny feet, and he turned his eyes toward it, searching in the darkness for the source. At first, he saw nothing, then a shadowy movement near the table caught his attention, and he knew instantly what it was. A rat had somehow gained entry and was drawn to the smell of food. With stealth and determination, it scaled the chair leg and sat up on its haunches, sniffing the air.

Launching himself from the bed, Louis rushed toward it, shouting and waving his arms in a threatening manner. He did not intend to eat the food, but it was _his_ food, and his possessive nature refused to relinquish even a bite to the rodent.

The rat turned as if to confront him, then decided better of it and fled, scurrying into a jagged crevice in the stone wall. Its thin, hairless tail disappeared a moment before Louis would have snatched hold of it. He didn't know what he would have done with it had he been able to catch it, but he knew he probably would have gotten himself bitten by its sharp teeth. After kicking resentfully at the crevice, he returned to the cot and plopped wearily down on it.

Exhausted, he lay down to attempt sleep, but after several moments of trying to find a comfortable position, he sat up again, knowing that it would not be possible to achieve any rest. The iron mask was too confining and too hard, and the mattress of the cot was too thin and was apparently stuffed with straw, for it was dry and prickly.

Positioning his back against the cold stone wall again, he laid his head against his knees again, closed his eyes, and attempted to construct a suitable plot to enact his revenge on the traitors who had done this to him. The trouble was, he could think of nothing that would work. With a sinking heart, he knew he would be trapped inside the Bastille until Philippe gave the order for his removal.


	28. Chapter Twenty Eight

**A/N:** Please bear with the next two chapters as Philippe gets settled in to life and procedures at the palace. After that, I have something in mind involving the characters and their futures.

As always, thanks for the reviews. And a special thanks to Sandpiper for suggesting a scene involving Athos's guilt over the wounding of the two Musketeers at the compound.

* * *

Chapter Twenty Eight

Dawn found D'Artagnan at the window of his private chamber, gazing across the beautifully manicured lawn.

It had been a long, troubled night. As he had feared, his thoughts had drifted to Louis, confined in the Bastille, rendering him unable to obtain the rest he needed. He had passed part of the night at his desk, providing written orders for the Bastille guards regarding the prisoner's care, and when that was done, he had moved to the window, grieving for the son he would likely never see again.

Once this decision had been made weeks earlier, he had known that this moment would arrive, but somehow he had never anticipated just how badly it would hurt to see his son taken away. It cut to his soul, and he knew that this wound would never heal as long as Louis was in the prison.

The sun was just creeping over the horizon when a movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he turned toward it. It was Anne, accompanied by her aging attendant, making her way toward the chapel. The queen mother walked tall and erect, but even from behind he could feel the aura of pain that surrounded her, invisible to others but shared by him. It was not her usual habit to make the walk so early in the morning, but he understood the source of her need for divine guidance. This time, instead of praying for Philippe, she would be praying for Louis. No matter how much things had changed, they had somehow remained the same: One son was king; the other wore the iron mask.

He watched until she was out of sight, then rested his forehead against the cool glass and closed his eyes, wearily, wishing he could accompany her to the chapel, to join her in prayer for their sons, and to openly offer the comfort she needed. What a strong woman she was to have borne so much grief alone. And she would have to continue to do so, for the orders for Louis' incarceration, signed and sealed, were lying on his desk waiting to be delivered, finalizing their older son's fate with his own hand.

Now, with the sun rising over the horizon, there was no reason to delay the inevitable. As much as he hated to do it, it must be done. Moving to the door of his room, he grasped the handle and opened it. As usual, guards stood at attention in the hall, protecting the royal chambers and awaiting orders.

"Send a courier to my room," D'Artagnan said.

"Yes, Captain," the guard replied.

With a sigh of resignation, he closed the door again and leaned against it, his heart heavy. There was no turning back now. Louis was no longer accessible to him, and as much as he regretted it, as much as he loved him, he must accept it. Lowering his eyes, he noticed that he was still dressed in the breeches and shirt from last night. He must be in his regular uniform when the courier arrived, so he spent the next few minutes changing his clothes.

Ten minutes later, he heard a knock at the door.

"Enter," he said, loudly enough for the person on the other side to hear.

The door opened, but instead of the expected courier, it was Athos who stepped into the room. He was dressed in clean clothes of a style befitting a businessman, and D'Artagnan knew he was reporting for his first day as the king's royal council.

"I know I am a bit early, but I was eager to get started," the former Musketeer said. Noticing his best friend's weary eyes, he said, "Did you sleep at all last night?"

"Very little," D'Artagnan admitted.

"Louis?" Even though they were in the captain's personal chamber where there were no ears to hear their private conversation, he spoke the name quietly.

"I could not stop thinking about him. All his life, he has lived in this palace, surrounded by luxury, his attendants, the finest food and wine, and any woman he desired. Now he is alone, locked inside a dank, dark cell in the Bastille, ordered there by me. This is a drastic change for him. What must he be thinking? How must he be feeling? How he must hate me." He bowed his head slightly, as if to hide his pain from his friend. "I did not know it would be this hard."

Athos was nodding slowly with complete understanding. "The suffering out our children creates a different kind of pain in the heart of a parent, far worse than our own."

"Yes," D'Artagnan agreed.

"We must hope that he will take your words to heart, and will behave himself until we remove him to the house. I saw Aramis last night after the ball. He is already lining up workers, has drawn up plans and diagrams, and is expected to begin the renovations as soon as he can acquire the materials. He claims that it will not take much in the way of alterations. Apparently, the house is quite secure as it is. He said he would come see you with the plans in a few days to keep you apprised of what they are doing."

"The only thing that makes it tolerable is knowing that Louis' suffering is only temporary, and that he will soon have a better place to live."

"Temporary but necessary," Athos reminded him. He paused, averting his eyes briefly in shame. "Actually, one reason I came so early was that I wanted to speak to you in private about another matter, something I wanted to mention last night, but the time was never appropriate."

"What is it?" D'Artagnan prompted.

Athos's expression was very serious, and he kept his eyes averted for several moments as he considered how he wanted to present his question. When he finally spoke, his words were apologetic. "When I first learned that Raoul had died, I was out of my head with grief and rage. You know that better than anyone." He looked up, gauging his friend's reaction.

D'Artagnan nodded in agreement, curious to see where his friend was going with this.

"With no thought of the consequences to myself or others, I came here to murder Louis, but instead I wounded two of your men, one of them severely. I was thinking about them yesterday, and my conscience has plagued me since, wondering of their fate. Tell me. Are they both well?"

D'Artagnan hated to be direct with his friend, but he knew Athos would expect nothing less. "One of them is permanently disfigured where you took off his earlobe. His hair will cover the disfigurement, but he remains angry and bitter. We feared the other would not survive, but he rallied on the third day and has been recovering with his family. It is uncertain if he will be able to return to the Musketeers."

Athos looked away, feeling guilty that he had possibly robbed the young Musketeer of his livelihood. "Is he in need of compensation?"

"His family owns property. If he cannot return to the Musketeers, he will find other work. He will be fine."

Athos moved to the window to look outside, thinking about Raoul. "I did not sleep well last night, either," he admitted. "It was my first night at home since we began our quest, and I cannot even express how alone I felt. Many of my son's personal belongings are still there. I went through them to collect mementos of his life, every one of them bringing back a memory of him. There have been many times when he was in the service that he was away, but that house was never as lonely as it was last night, knowing that he would never be coming home again."

"Athos, I –" A knock at the door interrupted their conversation, and D'Artagnan glanced at it rather impatiently. "Enter."

The door opened, and a young Musketeer stood there, but he did not fully enter the room. Instead, he looked inside at his captain, then his eyes darted warily to the other man. The eyes narrowed briefly, recognizing him as Athos.

Athos looked steadily back at him, but understood that the young Musketeer was thinking of that day in the yard, when he had caused such a commotion. No doubt, he had also heard by now that he, Porthos, and Aramis had been admitted to the palace as the king's council. He imagined that had been discussed at length in the barracks the night before.

The Musketeer shifted his attention back to D'Artagnan. "I was told that you requested a courier, Captain."

D'Artagnan picked up the orders from his desk, and handed them to the courier. "Deliver this to the captain of the guards at the Bastille. Tell him they are my orders for a prisoner that was apprehended yesterday during the king's hunt. The king will be sending confirmation later today."

"Right away, Captain." Turning smartly on his heel, the young Musketeer strode from the room and pulled the door closed behind him.

As D'Artagnan turned back toward his friend, he found that Athos was smiling. "It amuses me how your young Musketeers are in awe of you," he explained.

"And you as well."

"The legendary _Inseparables_," Athos agreed. "Those were good times. I fear, however, that it will take some time for me to regain the respect of the other Musketeers, after my shameful behavior in the compound yard. It pleases me greatly that the four of us are united again for a cause."

"It pleases me as well," D'Artagnan agreed.

"I'm curious to see how Philippe spent his first night in the palace. Have you seen him yet this morning?"

"No, not yet. He had such a busy day yesterday that I wanted to allow him time to recover. He is probably still abed. Will you stay and have breakfast with me?"

Athos smiled. "It would be my pleasure."

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

After being dressed in one of the king's usual outfits by Gael, Philippe opened the outer door to his chamber and stepped into the corridor, nodding to the guard who was positioned there. D'Artagnan had not come for him, so he knew that his father intended to allow him to sleep late if he desired. In spite of the strange bed and surroundings, he had sleep soundly and was now ready to begin his day. Whatever that might consist of, for he had no idea how a king might spend his day.

The guard bowed his head respectfully. "The queen requests that you join her in the dining hall, your majesty. She said she will be waiting for you there."

The youth in him had hoped that he might be allowed to dine with both his parents, but the reality was that such a thing would not be possible. He remembered his father saying weeks ago that he dined alone or with the other officers.

Nodding a response to the guard, he clasped his hands behind his back and walked down the long corridor toward the dining hall, careful to maintain a kingly appearance.

The previous day when he had arrived, he had not taken the time to look at the palace decoration, and last night on his way to the ball he had been too nervous to notice them. So he took his time, admiring the elaborately patterned floors, the beautiful marble pillars, and the gold leaf accents that were everywhere. Huge portraits and scenery paintings framed in gold leaf were hung on the walls, and he paused before one that reminded him of the river at the village, a place which would forever occupy a special place in his heart.

"It is lovely, isn't it?" asked a feminine voice beside him.

Turning his head, he found that Anne had joined him there, and was admiring the painting with him. "Good morning, Mother," he said. Leaning toward her, he kissed her cheek in a loving fashion, bringing a pleased smile to her lips. "It is indeed," he said in reply to her question. Nodding toward the painting, he added, "It reminds me of the village."

"It holds pleasant memories for you," she guessed.

"Very pleasant. Some of the happiest days of my life were spent there."

She glanced quickly around to make certain that they were alone, then said quietly, "Your father told me about it. It has pleasant memories for him, as well, for that is where he met his son. I wish I could have been a part of that, as well."

Philippe gazed at her beautiful face for a long moment. "We will make new memories, the three of us."

She smiled. "Yes. I look forward to them. But now, the servants are preparing to serve us breakfast. I have been waiting for you."

As they turned toward the dining hall, Philippe apologized, "Forgive me for taking so long, but I awakened a bit late and then had to wait for Gael to arrive and dress me. It would have been much faster if I had simply dressed myself!"

"If he does not do his job adequately, he can be replaced. Is he slow or clumsy?"

"No. A bit awkward, but I understand that he has never done this before." He leaned closer and lowered his voice. "I know _exactly_ how he feels, in fact! I fear I upset him last night. I forgot that I should have waited for him, and undressed myself. He was very much afraid that he would be reprimanded or removed from my service for failing at his duties. No, I do not want him replaced, for it is as much me as it is him. I am very much unaccustomed to this."

She reached out and took his hand in hers. "You will get used to it," she assured him. "I have not been waiting long. I rose early and went to the chapel to pray for . . . your brother."

Philippe's heart instantly felt heavier under the weight of his brother's ordeal. "I prayed for him last night before I went to bed. I will consult with Aramis often and keep you informed on the progress of the house. I know what he is experiencing, Mother, and I promise you, I will not allow him to be confined in the mask any longer than necessary." He sighed with regret. "Truthfully, I did not want it placed on him to begin with, but I understand that he would have been recognized without it. It was a difficult decision for me to reach."

She squeezed his hand affectionately. "Your experiences give the two of you a special bond, even if he is unable to appreciate it. I do not wish for either of my sons to be in the mask, yet it is good that you understand how your brother feels and is willing to show mercy. You will be a good king."

"I hope to be," he replied, earnestly. "I want to be the best king that I can possibly be. I want to help the people, Mother. I know what it is like to be hungry and hopeless."

As they neared the dining hall, she raised her hand, indicating that he should refrain from talk that might be overheard by the staff. They entered the large room together, and she discreetly indicated that he should take the seat at the head of the long table. Instead of taking the seat at the foot of the table, where she normally would have sat, she took the position directly to his right to be nearer to him, and with a servant holding her chair, she gracefully sank into it. Philippe remained standing until she was seated, then he sat down.

Quickly, he turned over in his mind everything that Athos had told him about proper table etiquette, determined that he would make no mistakes. Even though he was dining only with his mother, he knew that the servants would be watching attentively to react to each of his needs and wants, so he was careful to behave in an exemplary manner and to keep his posture erect and dignified. His plate was already in place along with the silverware, so he placed his napkin on his lap and waited while the servers filled his plate and that of his mother.

During their meal, they spoke only of general things which would not betray his identity and experience, but always he was aware of the watchful eyes of the servants. They were not intentionally eavesdropping, but instead were attentive to his and his mother's needs, but it made Philippe feel somewhat uncomfortable to have so many people watching his every move and every bite.

How strange it felt to be seated at a very formal dining table with his mother beside him! Accustomed to dining with men the past few weeks, he found himself watching her carefully, noticing the small delicate bites she took and the graceful way she handled her tableware. She was truly royalty, reminding him of the differences between her way or life and that of his father.

A small sigh escaped his lips before he could stop it. As his father had said, their situation appeared to be hopeless for any kind of legal union.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

"I had forgotten how well the Musketeers are fed," Athos said as he and D'Artagnan walked slowly along the corridor toward the king's dining room. "Since I have been gone these past weeks, the woman who had been cleaning my home and cooking for me has sought employment elsewhere, and until I can locate a replacement, I find myself facing the prospect of preparing my own meals!"

"Then you must dine with me more often," D'Artagnan said. "I would be glad for the company. I sometimes dine with the other officers, but lately it seems I eat alone most of the time."

"Well, with me working at the palace again, we will have more opportunities to socialize together."

"That we shall, my friend."

"What do you have planned for the king today?"

They were alone in a long empty corridor, but as a precaution D'Artagnan lowered his voice, "Well, it is only a matter of time before Claude and Gerard approach him on issues of state, so we need to brief him thoroughly on matters of importance."

"That will not be easy inside the palace," Athos said, glancing furtively over his shoulder. "When I am here, I always feel as if I am being watched!"

D'Artagnan smiled, amused. "It is probably the portraits. All those stern faces glaring out of their frames is enough to give anyone the sensation of being watched. I was thinking perhaps we could take him for a ride around the property as soon as he had finished his breakfast. There is no place inside the palace that can give us as much privacy as a quiet ride. Even inside the king's chamber, there is always the possibility of interruption."

"I think he approve of that. He seems to enjoy any opportunity to ride that black horse."

At that moment, Claude emerged from an adjacent corridor ahead of them, walking with long, purposeful strides toward the dining room. He did not notice the two men behind him, and he kept glancing rather nervously at the small stack of papers that was clutched in his hand. It was clear to see that he was intending to intercept the king as soon as he left the dining room.

D'Artagnan exchanged a quick glance with Athos, then spoke loudly enough for the advisor to hear, "Claude?"

Hearing his name, Claude stopped and turned around to see who had spoken. "Ah, Captain," he said when they reached him. "Good morning." His eyes shifted apprehensively to Athos. He did not speak a greeting, but gave a quick nod of acknowledgement.

Athos responded in kind, experiencing a curious sort of pleasure that the advisor was so uncomfortable in his presence.

"Are you looking for the king?" D'Artagnan asked.

Claude's eyes snapped back to the captain. "Yes," he replied. "I was informed that he is in the dining room with his mother. I have some documents that require his signature."

D'Artagnan had hoped that the advisors would not approach the king this early in the morning, and he knew he would have to head him off until he could speak to Philippe. "It will probably have to wait a few hours," he said, maintaining his calm demeanor, as if nothing was out of the ordinary. "The king has instructed me to ready his mount. Athos and I are to accompany him."

Claude was visibly surprised by this announcement. "I was not informed that he was leaving the palace this morning," he said, then before D'Artagnan could respond, he added, "Then again, he does not tell me everything he has planned. As well it should be, I suppose. He is the king. Still, it is getting harder and harder to get these documents signed when he is so busy with other things."

Athos had moved to the advisor's side as if to go around him, but had stopped and was looking discreetly at the top document with a troubled frown.

"The king has many duties," D'Artagnan reminded the advisor.

Claude did not seem to notice the former Musketeer's interest in the document. "Where is he off to so early?" he asked.

"I do not know. He did not say."

The captain's words were a gentle reminder that the king answered to no one, and Claude understood them completely. Glancing down at the documents again, he said, "Well, I was hoping to get this over with, but I suppose it can wait."

"Give him a couple of hours, and then he will meet you in the office," D'Artagnan said. "I will remind him that you are waiting."

"Thank you, Captain. I have a few other tasks that I can be doing before then." He retreated back up the adjacent corridor, walking considerably more slowly than before.

After he had gone, Athos turned to D'Artagnan. "Did you notice the document he carried on top of the stack?"

D'Artagnan shook his head. "No, I did not pay any attention."

"Come. Let's get to the king. I will explain on the way."

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

As he was completing his meal, Philippe noticed that D'Artagnan was standing in the doorway, waiting for him. A silent nod indicated that he must speak with him, so he stood up and placed his napkin on the table beside his plate.

"Mother, I have enjoyed our breakfast together. Will you consent to joining me for lunch?"

She smiled. "I look forward to it, my son."

"Then I must take your leave for now."

Leaving her, he joined his father in the corridor and was surprised to find Athos was with him. Both men were grim-faced, indicating that something serious had occurred. Philippe nodded a silent greeting to them both as they started down the hallway, seeking a private place to talk, but he could only wonder where they were going and what had happened.

Finally, in a quiet area of the corridor, D'Artagnan stopped and looked cautiously about to assure that no one else was present. Finding it empty, he turned to address Philippe. "Something has come up," he said, quietly. "Claude was on his way to the dining room a few minutes ago with some documents for you to sign. Since I wanted to describe matters of state to you first, I stalled him by informing him that you wanted to take a ride around the property with Athos and me first and asked that he wait in the office for you in a few hours. While we were talking, Athos happened to see one of the documents in his hand, and because of its consequences it is imperative that we speak to you before you are confronted with it."

Philippe heard the mention of the important document, but his youthful enthusiasm allowed it to drift as aside for the moment as his mind focused on the prospect of a pleasant morning horseback ride around the property with his father and Athos. His eyes lit up, eagerly. "I am always ready to take a ride with you, and I am most anxious to see the property. I did not see much of it yesterday as we arrived, and what I did see I was too nervous to notice anything except how big it is!"

The captain gestured down the corridor. "Come; I have already notified the staff to prepare our horses. They should be ready by now."

Philippe gave a silent nod of assent and fell in step between the other two men as they proceeded through the corridors toward the main door. They passed several servants along the way, polishing the floors, the columns, and the glass windows, and they instantly paused in their work to bow to their king as he passed. Philippe did not believe he would ever grow accustomed to these rituals, but he did his best to ignore them, as if it was something he had seen every day of his life.

The warmth of the sun greeted them as they stepped outside and descended the massive steps to the bottom where the horses were waiting for their riders. Philippe's heart always stepped up a few notches whenever he saw the black gelding, still marveling that this beautiful animal actually belonged to him. He had not yet seen his brother's white stallion, but knew that one day he would need to ride it as well, once he had gained more confidence in his abilities.

A handler held the reins of the horse while he mounted, then he waited until the other two men were settled, leaving it to them to decide which direction to take.

D'Artagnan's stallion reared up, eager for a gallop, but was restrained by its rider's firm hand. When all four hooves were on the ground again, the captain nodded toward the open ground well away from the palace, and they moved out in that direction, the horses' hooves clopping loudly on the cobblestone until they reached the grass.

D'Artagnan and Athos automatically took positions on either side of Philippe to shield him from harm, maintaining watchful attentiveness as they searched the grounds for possible threats.

Riding between his father and his mentor, Philippe's eyes constantly moved from one point to another, taking in the details of the palace grounds with the wonder of a young man who had never seen so many fine things.

It was a beautiful day, a perfect day for a ride. The sun was still low in the eastern sky, making its daily climb toward its zenith. The lawns were meticulously manicured, and workers were carefully trimming the hedgerows into perfectly shaped borders. Fountains of many shapes and sizes sprayed their streams of water into the air in a rush of sound as they cascaded back into the clear pools. Statues stood frozen in their marble poses, and lush gardens displayed their gently nodding flowers in the mild breeze.

And outside the palace gates were unspeakable poverty and hunger. The contradiction was explicit.

"I have never seen such extravagance," Philippe said at last, breaking the silence, "The fountains and gardens are very beautiful, but it is difficult to imagine all this richness in the midst of such terrible poverty. It seems selfish. Obscene, even. How can it be justified?"

"It is as it has always been, Philippe," Athos said in a kindly voice. "For some, life is not fair, but you have the ability to improve their living conditions."

"But there is so much need. How do we even know where to start? What can we do to help them?"

"Obviously, we are not going to resolve the problem overnight. These people do not want the government to provide them with handouts. They want to work, to earn their living and make their own way in life."

"But how do we create the work for them to do?"

Athos smiled, patiently. "Ah, now you see the difficulties of governing."

"I am uncertain that I am capable of doing this."

"We will take one small step at a time. I have faith that you will make a difference."

D'Artagnan scanned their surroundings carefully, and determined that they were sufficient distance from the palace and the grounds keepers to avoid being overheard. "Son, we brought you out here because we have matters to discuss that we did not want to risk talking about inside the palace."

"Something has happened, hasn't it?" Philippe asked, reminded of the serious purpose for the horseback ride. "Is it Louis?"

"No, not Louis. As I said, Claude has a stack of documents ready for your signature, but there is one particular document that I wanted to warn you about. It is an execution order."

Philippe felt his breakfast ripple uncomfortably in his stomach. He had been king less than twenty four hours, and already a man's life was in his hands! Pulling back on the reins, he drew his horse to a stop and turned his head to look at his father. "An execution order?" he said, hesitantly. How could he possibly pen his name to an order demanding the death of another human being?

"Last week, a man entered the palace grounds with the intent of assassinating Louis," D'Artagnan explained. "He was apprehended before he could carry out his plot and is now confined in the Bastille under orders to be executed after the ball. If you sign the document, it will be carried out in a few days, but I must advise you that there were extenuating circumstances that led to his desperate act. I made inquiries and discovered that the man is one of Louis' tenants." Seeing the puzzled expression of Philippe's face, he added, "He leases a small plot of land just outside the city. Louis increased the rent on his tenants, and when he could not pay, his livestock was confiscated. He owns very little, only a team of oxen with which to till the ground, and without them he cannot work his crop. Without his crop, he cannot feed his family."

"And without him, his family will be destitute," Philippe concluded. "Are they still living on the property?"

"For the moment. Since his wife cannot pay the rent either, she has been ordered to vacate within one week of the execution. She is currently looking for a place to live, but so far she has not been successful."

"Are there children?"

"Yes. But herein is another problem. It is certain that there are other tenants who will be leaving as well, for they cannot pay the additional rent either. If they leave, the government will lose money in the long run. This was a bad policy decision for everyone involved."

"Can the execution be stopped?"

D'Artagnan's mustache twitched in a slight smile. "I thought you would probably ask that. If that is your wish, yes. You are the king, and the decision is yours to make. But if you choose to halt the execution, we must have a plan in mind to deal with this man."

"What kind of plan?"

"Do you wish him to be imprisoned, fined, or freed without punishment?" Athos asked. "You will be required to make a decision regarding his fate."

Philippe looked down at the reins in his hand, uncomfortable with the thought of passing judgment on a man he had never even met. A man who, in a moment of desperation, had attempted to commit a serious crime.

"He has no money, no property, and no valuables," D'Artagnan said. "Only a ramshackle cottage on land that is not his own. If you issue a fine, he cannot pay it."

Philippe was quiet for several moments, thinking about what he had just been told, and was reluctant to make a decision without additional input from the more experienced men at his side. "What is your recommendation?"

"If you wish to show mercy, you may free him, but make certain he understands that there are conditions to his freedom. He may not approach you or the palace at any time, or risk being shot on sight."

Philippe looked up, startled. "That is harsh!" he objected. "I could never order a man to be shot like –"

"Trust your father," Athos advised. "The man came here intending to assassinate the king! This is a crime punishable by death. It is what he expects, and he will be so grateful for his freedom that he is not likely to come anywhere near the palace. You must not appear too lenient, and something must be done to discourage a repeat of the offense. The threat to his life will be an effective deterrent."

Philippe fell silent for several moments, pondering the information carefully and trying to understand his brother's logic in his treatment of his subjects. By raising the rent on underprivileged tenants, no one benefited, not even the crown, for the tenants would look for lodging elsewhere. Realizing that his father and Athos were providing him with the insight necessary to make the decision himself, he said, "Then I should reduce the lease back to what it was and return his oxen."

Apparently, it was the right decision, for neither man objected to his resolution.

"Remember, Louis is not a forgiving person, so by sparing this man's life and returning his livestock you are doing something that he would probably not do," Athos reminded him. "This change of heart alone will surprise your advisors, so when you issue the directive to Claude, make certain he relays the fact that while you have made the decision to be lenient, there are serious consequences to any further attempts on your life. Be firm and decisive. The king will not be so forgiving a second time."

Philippe nodded. "I understand." He hesitated, reluctant to risk offending his father, but he was so upset at being immediately confronted with a matter of life and impending death that he spoke with a slightly accusatory tone, "You never told me that I would be faced with something like this my first day as king."

"I was unaware of it," D'Artagnan replied with no apparent offense. "The incident occurred while I was at the village. I did not find out about it until I returned, but I thought we would have another week or so before it was to be carried out, enough time for you to acclimate yourself to your position before having to address the issue."

Philippe looked away, feeling ashamed that he had believed the information had been intentionally withheld from him during his deliberations at the village, when he was trying to determine his own fate. "Forgive me," he said, regretfully. "I should not have –"

D'Artagnan reached out and placed a firm but affectionate hand on his son's shoulder. "Philippe, there is nothing to forgive. I know what you were thinking, and it is only natural that you would assume that we withheld the information to influence your decision to accept our proposal. Just know that we will always be open and honest with you."

"I will never doubt either of you; any of you," Philippe added to include Aramis and Porthos. "I appreciate everything you have done for me. Only a few short weeks ago, I had lost all hope that I would ever be freed from that place, and now I am the king of France! It is all such a rapid change that my head is still spinning from it."

"It should never have happened the way it did," Athos said with conviction. "I could strangle Aramis for placing you in the mask and sending you to the prison."

"It is in the past," Philippe said, quickly. "He had no choice but to follow the orders. Louis probably kept in touch with the keepers at the prison, since they notified him that the prisoner in the mask had died. Had he not carried out the orders, he would have been found out and severely punished. No, he did what he had to do."

Athos looked at him for a long time with an admiring gaze. "I have said it before, but it bears repeating: your forgiving nature becomes you well."

"I lost six years of my life, but I remember what you told me at the village; that I could let what happened to me make me bitter and hate filled, or I could let it make me a better man than I was. I want to be the latter. I know what it is like to be unjustly imprisoned and treated with unfairness. I will never do that to others."

D'Artagnan's stallion lowered its handsome head and pawed restlessly at the ground, impatient to be moving again. Philippe nudged his black with his heel, and they started forward again at a walk.

They fell silent for several minutes, and Philippe thought about the work involved with being the king. He supposed he knew that the business of running the country would involve certain intricacies and formal procedures, but he had not really thought about them before. With the matter of the prisoner's life out of the way, he was curious about the other documents. "Do you know what the other documents will be?"

"No," Athos replied. "I only saw the one on the top."

"Are there certain procedures for signing documents?"

"Your advisor and accountants compile all the necessary paperwork. They will then present you with the items you must sign and you will do that, but I would advise that you carefully examine each document before you put the king's signature on it. If you have questions about it, ask that they explain the need for it."

"What kind of documents will I likely see?"

"They can be almost anything," D'Artagnan replied. "You may see orders for the generals at the front lines, requisitions for purchases, or any other manner of business that the king needs to approve. The bill from the physician you directed to care for the old man will probably arrive this morning. I should imagine that Claude and Gerard will be a bit confused by the king's generosity in this matter, so we must have a plan for that."

Philippe shrugged, failing to understand why his compassion would confuse anyone. "I will simply tell the truth; that I was very moved by the sight of that old man who had dedicated a part of his life to the service of his king and his country."

Athos could not contain his amused smile. "Coming from Louis, that will be a major surprise for them. Louis is not moved by anything, unless it is a beautiful woman. Everything he does benefits him alone." He glanced quickly at D'Artagnan, and felt compelled to apologize. "Forgive me. I should have held my tongue. Philippe displays such a forgiving attitude, while I continue to allow my bitterness to overwhelm me. I do not follow my own advice."

If D'Artagnan felt a twinge of resentment, he carefully concealed it. "It grieves me to admit that your assessment is probably correct. Louis is not known for being sentimental, but he will say sentimental things to serve his purpose. Philippe, it would be better if you offered no explanation at all. Simply tell them it was your decision, and that is final."

"I agree," Athos said. "The king owes no explanation for anything he does. But do not sound overly compassionate when you speak of the old man. For the time being, you must behave as Louis in your manner of speaking."

He had heard that many times before, but sometimes it was a necessary reminder, for it was easily forgotten in the transition that had placed him on the throne. "I will remember," he said. "What about the Jesuits? Will they be a threat to me as they were my brother?"

"That is unlikely," Athos replied. "Aramis is their general and although he has not revealed the existence of a twin, he has sent out word that the assassination attempts must stop, that he has a better plan. We will still keep a sharp out, though, in case some have the inclination to disobey their leader, but I think you are relatively safe from them. It is your subjects that you must worry about. Louis has made life very difficult for them."

"Then we must turn things around for them, somehow," Philippe said. "I am ready for a canter and a few moments of pleasure before we return to the palace and the king's duties. Would you gentlemen care to join me?"

Without waiting for a response, he nudged his horse, which responded instantly with a burst of speed, and the young king surged ahead of the other two riders. D'Artagnan's stallion snorted and adjusted its gait as it attempted to follow, so he allowed the animal to break into a strong canter. Athos's bay responded in kind, and within seconds, he and D'Artagnan were at his side again, their horses eager for a race. With manes and tails flying, the three horses galloped over the gently sloping hill.


	29. Chapter Twenty Nine

Chapter Twenty Nine

Gerard sat quietly by himself in the king's ornate office, awaiting the kings return and pondering the events of the previous evening, still puzzled by the mysterious changes in the monarch's demeanor. Louis' mood always improved during parties and festivities, but much of his behavior had been so out of the ordinary that it left the bewildered advisor wondering what could have inspired these changes.

His forehead was still furrowed when Claude entered the room with the documents requiring Louis' signature. As the senior advisor approached the small work table, he noticed his colleague's puckered brow.

"Good morning, Gerard," he said in greeting.

Gerard turned his head, and his expression indicated that he had not heard the other man approach. "Good morning," he responded, quietly.

"You appear very distracted," Claude observed as he placed the documents on the work table and began to ready them for the king. "Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing is wrong. I just don't understand some of the things that happened last night," came the vague response, followed by a slight clarification, "Does the king seem different to you?"

"Different?" Claude asked, looking up from his papers. "In what way?"

Gerard hesitated. It was forbidden to speak of the king in ways that could be construed as gossip, and that is exactly what his concerns would sound like. Should he be overheard, he would likely lose his position. He glanced quickly toward the empty doorway to confirm that they were alone, then leaned forward as he said quietly, "Well, do not repeat this, but he seemed more pleasant last night at the ball."

Claude smiled. "Louis is always more pleasant during a ball. He loves the festivities."

"I know that, but he was much more agreeable and more attentive to his mother. Did you notice the way he stayed by her side? They were even holding hands much of the time. He showed more attention to her last night than has in months, perhaps years. In fact, he seemed to enjoy her company even more than that of his dance partner. Speaking of which, doesn't it seem odd to you that he dismissed her after only one dance?"

Claude shrugged, returning his attention to the documents. "Given his love of the dance, it might ordinarily be considered odd, but I overheard him say that he had strained his back during the hunt yesterday morning. It is likely that he simply did not feel up to dancing. A strained back can be quite painful."

This was news to Gerard, and seemed adequate explanation for abandoning the dance so early. "I was not aware that he had injured himself. Yes, that might have something to do with it." He fell silent for a moment, watching as Claude sorted through the papers, then asked, "Did you see him step on his partner's dress?"

"Yes."

"Have you ever known Louis to make such a mistake on the dance floor?"

Claude's eyes darted up briefly before returning to his papers. "No, but it may be related to the strained back. That would make him less flexible, and might cause such an error." He chuckled, softly. "He seemed rather amused by it, and the guests certainly enjoyed it."

"He was definitely having a good time. What about the queen mother? Have you ever known her to remain so long at one of Louis' balls? I doubt that I have seen her ten times in the years that I have been at the palace, usually walking to or from the chapel. She is said to be a recluse. If she appears at the festivities at all, she makes her brief appearance and then retires to her room."

"Perhaps she was enjoying herself," Claude suggested.

Gerard's mind worked furiously, struggling to better convey his thoughts. Remembering the overweight dancer, he asked, "Did you see the king assist that woman who had fallen? Have you ever known him to do something like that before?"

Claude set aside the first set of documents and reached for the next set. "I admit, I was a bit taken aback by that incident. He seemed in a particularly good mood, but I fail to see why this is something you are so worried about."

Gerard shook his head, unable to fully explain, even to himself, why he felt so uneasy. "I am not worried. It is just that I have never seen him behave like this before. Even his eyes seem different; less intense. It is almost . . . " He paused, certain that Claude would think him crazy for even suggesting such a thing. "It is almost as if he is a different man."

This time, Claude lowered the documents and looked at him in surprise. "A different man? You are speaking nonsense, Gerard."

Gerard shrugged, feeling suddenly embarrassed. "I know, that is impossible, and I am probably being foolish about this entire matter, but I cannot help but wonder at the change in him."

Claude reached for the next document. "You worry too much, my friend," he said. "The king and queen mother were clearly enjoying themselves last night. There is no explanation other than that. I only hope the king's good mood has carried over to today. He is much easier to work with when –" He broke off abruptly as he held the document up for closer inspection. "Have you any knowledge of this?" he asked, passing it to the other man.

Gerard took the piece of parchment in his hand for examination. "It is a bill for services rendered," he said. "By a physician? No, this is the first I have heard of this. Where did you get it?"

"It was brought this morning by courier. I placed it in the stack intending to look at it later."

"Well, it must be in error. The king has his own physician."

"Did you read the note?" Claude asked, tapping his forefinger on the handwritten paragraph at the bottom of the page. "It indicates that the physician was summoned to one of Paris's poorer sections to care for an elderly man, and the king instructed that the bill be forwarded to the palace for payment."

"That is most peculiar," Gerard agreed. "Still, it is keeping with the unusual behavior of the king this past day. Why should he be so concerned about the welfare of a sick old man? He never has been concerned about the well-being of his subjects before."

Claude shrugged. "Perhaps the king was feeling generous," he suggested, then raised his hand to halt the next comment that he knew his colleague would make. "No, I have never known him to exhibit such sentiment for the poor and afflicted, but it would improve his standing in the community, would it not?"

"Is that what you think this is about? Improving his image?"

"Why not? He has been very unpopular lately. There has been rioting in the streets –"

"And a few weeks ago he ordered them to be shot!" he retorted. "The harshest penalty there is against people who are merely trying to survive. Not to mention the fact that he had your former partner executed for something that was not his fault."

Claude was silent for a moment in memory of his late friend and partner. "Perhaps he has come to realize that issuing the order to shoot rioters will only result in more discontent among the people. The common people are very important for the country. They are the ones who do the labor which benefits the kingdom. Without them, the nation cannot function."

"That is very true, Claude," said a voice from behind them.

Both men jumped and turned toward that voice, recognizing it as that of their king. He stood framed in the doorway, his expression very stern.

The color drained from Claude's face as he and Gerard leaped to their feet to bow to the king. Gerard's foot caught on the leg of his chair, and it overturned and clattered noisily to the floor, adding to the sudden tension that permeated the room.

"Your majesty, I –" Claude began, then his explanation failed him, for there was no justification for gossiping about the royal family. It was over for them, for they would surely be dismissed. "Forgive us, your majesty," he added, lamely. "We should not have been discussing these things. It is just that we received a bill this morning that we felt must surely be in error, and it led to other –"

"From the physician I summoned to assist the old man?" Philippe asked.

Gerard and Claude looked quickly at each other, then at the king. "Well, yes, sire," Claude said, then looked at Gerard again in surprise. "You summoned him, your majesty?"

"This astonishes you?" Philippe asked with a slightly mocking tone that sounded very reminiscent of Louis.

Neither of the advisors wanted to answer that question, and Philippe found that fact quite amusing. They feared him, and this was a strange new sensation. No one had ever been afraid of him before. Instinctively, he knew that this was another thing that Athos and D'Artagnan had warned him about. Power could be intoxicating, and he must fight its corruptive allure.

Behind him, D'Artagnan and Athos observed the exchange silently, waiting to see how the new king would handle the situation.

Clasping his hands behind his back, Philippe entered the room and strolled casually to the desk, discreetly examining the décor and the position of the furniture as he walked. When he reached the desk, he walked around it to the chair, carefully observing the position of the quill, ink well, and other items that lay atop it, for he knew he must reach for them as if they were second nature. He must not pause to hunt for anything.

Even though he had never seen the desk in his life, he moved to the chair and sat down as relaxed as if he had been doing just that every day. The two advisors turned as he walked past, facing him at all times. Gerard bent quickly to retrieve the chair that he had knocked over, and returned it to its correct position.

Philippe leaned back in his chair casually to observe them in the arrogant demeanor that Louis was famous for. "It grieves me to think that my people believe me uncaring of their needs, when in fact I care very deeply. As you said, the people are the life's blood of France. Without them, the country cannot function."

Athos and D'Artagnan entered the room, and both Claude and Gerard became aware of them for the first time. Both appeared very surprised to see the former Musketeer who had attempted to assassinate the king and had caused such a ruckus on the grounds. It had been surprising enough for Claude to have seen Athos inside the palace in the company of D'Artagnan earlier, but seeing him inside the king's office was another matter entirely! Their eyes darted to the king, as if silently requesting the explanation they dared not ask for verbally.

"Oh, did I not tell you?" Philippe asked, correctly interpreting their expressions. "I have brought Athos, Porthos, and Aramis on staff as my royal council. Porthos and Aramis are attending to other matters at this time, but they will be here at a later date."

The two advisors traded glances again with uncertainty, and Philippe knew they were fearful of being replaced by the three famous Musketeers. He had no intention of firing them, but as Louis he would have to alleviate their fears without appearing too sympathetic of their concerns. He would also have to address the gossip. While they had stood at the door listening to the conversation between the two advisors, D'Artagnan had whispered in his ear, _"You must deal swiftly and firmly with this."_

"I overheard some of what you were discussing," he said, his voice stern. "I am very displeased that my two trusted advisors were making speculations regarding my mother and myself. You are aware that this is forbidden."

Claude looked as though he might faint. "Yes, your majesty," he mumbled, eyes averted.

Philippe looked at Gerard, awaiting his answer.

"Yes, your majesty," he said, his voice shaking slightly. He glanced at Claude, the senior advisor, and decided to make the noble sacrifice. "It is entirely my fault, Sire. I am the one who –"

"It is unimportant who initiated the gossip," Philippe said, sternly. "The point is, it happened. I consider each of you equally responsible." He paused briefly to give them time to respond, but neither spoke. "However," he continued, "I will forgive this one infraction, but I want it known that I will tolerate no more gossip about me or my mother. Is this perfectly clear?"

"Yes, your majesty," the two men murmured, their voices jumbling together. "Thank you, your majesty," Claude added.

"As for the bill, you will send the good doctor the payment he requests, and if the patient requires additional treatment, we will pay for that also. Now, I assume we have other business to conduct."

"I have some documents that require your signature, your majesty," Claude said as he stepped forward and presented the first document, placing it carefully on the desk in front of the king with trembling fingers, then stepped back, a gesture which reminded Philippe that his subjects always kept their distance from him. "The first is an order for the execution of the prisoner who was apprehended last week on the palace grounds," the advisor explained.

Philippe had never seen an execution order before, so he picked up the document to examine it. The script was bold and precise, and the wording of the order was very formal. His eyes lingered on the man's name, an act which reinforced the fact that this was a human being, not some inanimate object without importance, before continuing down the page to the offense: illegal entry with the intent to assassinate the king of France.

Seeing that the king was taking an inordinate amount of time to review the order, Claude leaned forward and pointed to the space at the bottom right corner that he had provided for the signature. "Right there, your majesty."

With an unhurried demeanor, Philippe continued to examine the document, but what he was actually doing was considering how he should react to it. This was one point that Athos and D'Artagnan had not covered with him. Should he simply hand it back to Claude? Should he write something across it to show that he had rejected it? What would Louis do if refusing a document? Finally, after careful consideration, he ripped the order in half.

Claude flinched noticeably as he watched the order destroyed and for a moment Philippe thought he would pounce on the pieces in an attempt to recover them. "Are you – are you displeased with the wording, your majesty?" he asked, somewhat shaken by the king's reaction.

"No, Claude, the wording was very exquisite."

"Then what, sire?" the advisor protested. "It was under your orders that I composed the directive. You said it should be scheduled for day after tomorrow." He held up another parchment. "You also requested an order for the executioner."

Philippe held out his hand expectantly, and when Claude hesitated, he snapped his fingers to demand instant compliance. Reluctantly, the advisor handed him the sheet. After reading it quickly, the young king ripped it in half as well, and placed the pieces of both documents on the edge of his desk. "Now that the ball is over, I have given the matter a great deal of thought, and I have reconsidered the manner of punishment for this man. I have decided to rescind the execution order."

"R-reconsidered, your majesty?" Claude stammered. Lifting his eyes from his king, he looked at Gerard in astonishment. Never in his years as advisor had he known the king to rescind an execution order.

"That is correct. I have reached the conclusion that there is a better way to deal with this particular incident."

"What is it you wish to do, Sire?" Gerard asked.

"For starters, we must reduce the rent on the tenants. I believe the raising of it was a very unpopular move and led to this man committing an act that he probably would never have attempted otherwise. And return his oxen to him. The land he leases is of no use to him if he cannot till the soil."

The two advisors were speechless, staring at him with wide eyes.

"Do not look so surprised, gentlemen!" Philippe added with a smile. "If this man is executed, I lose a tenant. It is as simple as that. I dare say, I will probably lose even more who cannot pay the increase, so in returning his livestock and reducing his rent back to what it was, everyone benefits in the long run. My tenants have a roof over their heads and land to work, and the crown has the continued income that it would not have in the event of an exodus."

"Oh!" Claude said abruptly. "I see, your majesty! Excellent strategy! Excellent! I will see to it right away. I will draft a release order immediately." The eagerness in his voice told Philippe that the advisor had not been in favor of the increase in rent, and had probably urged Louis at the time to reconsider. He seemed so relieved that Philippe suspected he had also disapproved of the ordered execution, for he had most likely been forced to draft the execution order for his own partner.

"Yes, do that," Philippe agreed with enough haughtiness in his voice to resemble Louis. "However," he added, drawing the rapt attention from the advisors again. "In dealing with this assassin, we must not appear too lenient. He did intend to commit a serious crime, after all. By releasing this man and giving back his livestock, we are returning to him his ability to provide for himself and his family. In return for forgiving his crime, he must never come near the palace or to me, or he will be shot on sight." His voice was so firm and steady that no one guessed just how difficult it was to speak the words. "I will not be so merciful a second time."

"I will make certain he understands this, sire," Claude said, tremendously thankful that he would not have to witness another execution. "Your mercy and generosity will go a long way toward building a positive relationship between you and your subjects."

"I may decide to take that issue a step farther," Philippe said, thinking this the perfect lead-in for helping the poor in the community.

"In what way, your majesty?"

"As I was entering Paris yesterday from my hunt, I noticed that there is great poverty in the city, far more than I realized. Dwellings were nearly caving in upon their residents, the streets were littered with trash, and there was a foul smell in the air. It nearly took my breath away!"

Claude exchanged glances with Gerard again. "Well, Sire," he began, hesitantly. "The poverty has been here for a very long while and it is why so many people are discontent."

"How is it that I have never noticed it before? How have we allowed such a thing to happen? The filth and the stench are overwhelming in those areas. We must come up with a plan to remedy that. It would be most unfortunate should our fair city be visited by foreign dignitaries and have them see such poverty. Paris is too beautiful to let it fall into ruin."

"Indeed it is, your majesty," Gerard agreed. "What do you propose?"

"We must think of a way to renovate these areas and find employment for the citizens. There must be work that they could do. I would like input from both of you on this, so be thinking about how we might accomplish this."

"Yes, your majesty," they chimed.

"Is there anything else?" Philippe asked.

"If it pleases your majesty, I have a few more documents that require your signature." He placed the first one on the desk in front of the king, his expression anxious, as if fearful that it would be destroyed along with the previous orders.

Philippe picked it up and examined it. It was a requisition to commission an artist to paint a new portrait of the king. He looked up at the advisor for explanation.

"You requested last week that I commission a new portrait, your majesty," he reminded him.

"Yes, I remember," Philippe said, thoughtfully. Of course, it had been Louis who had made the request, but the new king was not quite ready to sit for a portrait. There were too many important matters to attend first. "In light of other, more pressing matters, I believe it is in our best interest to postpone this portrait until a later date." He passed the document back to him. "File this away for a few months, and we will see where we stand."

"Yes, your majesty." He accepted the document, pleased that it would not have to be re-written at a later date, then presented another for the king's signature. It was the bill or the physician's services, so he reached for the quill and signed Louis' name just as he had practiced so diligently while in the village.

As he handed it back, Claude presented another, a simple requisition to pay the musicians from the ball the evening before. "And this one also, your majesty."

Dipping the quill in the ink well again, Philippe signed his brother's name to the document and passed it back to him.

"Gerard and I will see to compiling a list of suggestions to renovate the poor sections of the city, and I will write an order for the immediate release of the farmer, your majesty. I will bring it for your signature this afternoon."

"That will be all."

The two men bowed again, and backed away, but as they reached the door, Claude turned back. "Your forgiveness is most appreciated, your majesty."

Philippe gave a dismissive wave of his hand, and the two advisors left the room, pulling the door closed behind them.

Before anyone spoke, Athos went to the door and opened it. The two advisors were hurrying away to carry out their orders, so he closed it again. "They're gone," he announced. "You did very well, your majesty. Very well indeed."

"I was uncertain what to do about that portrait," he admitted. "I am not yet ready to commit to a sitting."

"The portrait is a minor thing," D'Artagnan said. "It can wait until you are more comfortable. There are portraits all over this palace, and in fact Louis has only just completed a sitting for a new one a few weeks ago. You handled yourself very well in dealing with the execution. And I approve of your idea to involve the advisors in working out a plan to help the people of the city. And you dealt with the gossip issue most effectively. In fact," he added with a smile. "I am thinking that you may not require as much training as we had initially thought."

"I was thinking the same thing," Athos agreed. "You are settling into your new position very well. You have an intelligent way of thinking, and your tone of voice is very much like Louis'."

"The advisors both seemed suspicious when we first walked in," Philippe said. "Will they be a problem?"

"No, not any longer," D'Artagnan replied. "I dare say you put the fear into both of them about their gossiping."

"I hated treating them so cruelly," Philippe said. "Both were fearful that I would dismiss them."

"It was necessary," Athos reminded him. "I doubt that either one of them will continue their debate on your change of demeanor."

"I must add that ripping up the execution order was a nice touch," D'Artagnan added with a smile. "Louis has been known to do that very thing when displeased."

Philippe exhaled with relief. "I was uncertain what to do about it, how he might react. Claude seemed most upset by it."

"That is because he is the one who writes out the documents, and he has been known to rewrite them numerous times before presenting them to the king. He had likely worked on that one document for several hours."

"I feel badly about destroying it, then," Philippe said, regretfully.

"It is something that Louis has done, so you are keeping with behavior that is similar to his. You must have noticed how timid Claude is when he offers you a document. It is because he never knows which one is going to survive and which will have to be rewritten. As Athos said, you did very well. I am proud of you. Now, before we do anything else, we need to detail a set of orders to the Bastille from you describing the care of your brother."

"What do we call him?" Athos asked, curiously. "Obviously, we cannot refer to him as Louis."

D'Artagnan was quiet for a moment, considering how the former king might be addressed in correspondence, and reached the painful conclusion that it was best that he had no identity at all. "There will be no name given. He will simply be referred to as the prisoner in the mask. It is safer that way. No one can attempt to trace his origin if he is totally anonymous. My handwriting is well known to the prison guards. Athos, will you write the draft?"

With a silent nod, Athos opened the desk drawer and withdrew a blank sheet of parchment, which he placed on the desk top. "Excuse me, your majesty, may I?" he asked, reaching for the quill.

Philippe gestured for him to take it, so he dipped it in the ink well and poised it over the parchment.

"What I will first do," he explained, "is make a list of the issues we wish to address, and then I will draft a letter to the captain of the guards for your approval. You mentioned yesterday that he must have a cot to sleep on, so we will start with that." He jotted that down on the paper.

"And a reasonably comfortable mattress," Philippe said. "I had no such luxury. I was provided only a small pile of straw on which to sleep, and it was insufficient to cushion the stone floor. He must also have a good blanket."

"And a plump pillow," D'Artagnan suggested.

Philippe looked at him strangely for a moment, then said, "Give him the pillow, but it will offer little comfort when his head is encased in iron. Trust me, he will not feel the softness of the pillow at all, but at least it will elevate his head somewhat."

D'Artagnan felt the stab of reality pierce his heart, and he leaned his hands on the edge of the desk and bowed his head, regretfully. "I will be glad when this is over, and he is in the house where we can remove that damnable contraption. You have no idea how painful it is for me to hear these things that were done to you and are now being done to him."

"I am sorry, Father," Philippe apologized. "I do not tell you this to upset you. You are doing what you can to make him for comfortable."

D'Artagnan took a deep breath, and returned his attention to the matter at hand. "I wish him to be well fed; he must be provided decent cuts of meat, vegetables, and bread. And his water is to be clean. Not the stale water they provide from the barrels, but fresh from the well."

The quill scratched rapidly on the parchment as Athos wrote down the suggestions. "They will wonder at so many concessions given to a prisoner, especially for one who attempted to murder the king."

"We will state that he is a political prisoner of high standing, which is the truth. They need know no more than that."

"Anything else?" Athos asked.

D'Artagnan thought for a moment. "Include a reminder that the deaf-mute is the only guard permitted inside his cell-block. No one else is to have any contact with him at all. Emphasize this with strong wording."

Athos dipped the quill in the ink again, and continued writing. Philippe had never seen Athos's handwriting before, and watched curiously as the former Musketeer wrote rapidly in straight lines across the page. Obviously well educated, his penmanship was bold and surprisingly ornate, attesting to his noble upbringing. When complete, he read the list aloud, then looked up at Philippe and D'Artagnan for any additions.

"I think that about covers it," the captain said.

Athos withdrew another sheet of parchment and carried it to the worktable that had been vacated earlier by the two advisors. "I will get to work on this, then. It is easier to compose when I am alone, so you two may wish to take a walk or something."

"Would you show me the secret passages?" Philippe asked, eagerly.

"Very well," D'Artagnan agreed. "Athos, we will return shortly." To Philippe, he said, "You may enter the passages at various locations in the palace, including this room. The door is there, behind that bookcase." He went to it and demonstrated how the bookcase slid open to reveal the hidden passage behind it.

With a look of wonder on his face, Philippe stepped through the opening. It was darker inside the tunnel, and the air contained a musty, cavelike smell. Dust had settled on the floor, confirming that the cleaning servants were totally unaware of its existence.

D'Artagnan entered behind him, and pulled the bookcase closed. The darkness increased to a degree that made it difficult to see. "We will need to allow our eyes to grow accustomed to the dark," he said.

"How many people are aware of these passages?" Philippe asked, curiously.

"Only a handful. The architect who designed them knows about them. As head bodyguard, I was told of them and use them occasionally, and I informed Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. The queen knows of them, and Louis. And now you."

"Lieutenant Andre does not know about them?"

"Not yet. He knows only of a few passages beneath the palace, but he knows nothing of these. When I retire, I will recommend him as my replacement, and he will be informed at that time. At the moment, however, he has no pressing need to know."

Gradually, as his eyes grew accustomed to the low level of light that managed to seep into the passages, Philippe saw a long, dusky corridor, so narrow that he could easily touch the walls on both sides, which extended for an undetermined distance ahead of him. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that behind him the tunnel made an abrupt right hand turn.

"Can you see yet?" his father asked.

"Yes. It's a bit shadowy, but I can see sufficiently."

"This way, then."

D'Artagnan led the way deeper into the passage ahead of them. Noticing that Philippe kept his eyes averted, looking at the floor on which he was walking, he said, "There is nothing in here to trip on, so you don't need to worry about your footing. There are many exits to the passages. I saw you looking at the corner behind us. It leads to a secret exit near the main stairs. Just ahead of us is an exit that opens into a corridor which appears on the outside to be a dead-end. A tapestry conceals the secret door."

He paused at the door, unfastened the latch, and opened it just a crack. Philippe could see the multicolored fabric of the tapestry that concealed it. Sliding his hand out, D'Artagnan pulled back the tapestry and checked the corridor for activity. Finding none, he opened the door farther and drew aside the tapestry, allowing Philippe a view of the corridor.

"Should you utilize the passages, always check quietly to see that no one is there before you exit. We want these areas to remain secret, and it might give a servant quite a turn to see you coming out of the wall. The exits have been purposely placed in areas in which there is little activity, except the one behind us that I told you about. You want to avoid that one except in a dire emergency."

He allowed the tapestry to fall back into place, and closed the secret door. They continued on, turning another corner.

"These hidden passages are mostly between the walls at the rear part of the chambers or in some cases, running along the side walls. Never at the front, where we would have to contend with the rooms' normal doorways. Besides, the passages would make the walls appear too thick at the front part of the chambers."

"I wondered about that," Philippe said.

The air was very still and humid inside the passages, and sweat began to bead on his forehead. He reached up to wipe it away.

"It's warm in here," he commented.

"There is no good way to ventilate," D'Artagnan replied. "They are rather warm in the summer and cold in the winter." He paused before a shallow recess, indicating that the door was there. "Here is the entrance to your mother's private chambers."

Philippe saw the longing expression on his father's face as he observed the closed door, and he briefly considered asking if he had ever been inside her private chamber, but decided that it was too personal a question. Instead, he asked, "Is there an entrance in your chamber as well?"

D'Artagnan smiled fondly at the young man's youthful curiosity, understanding the hidden question behind the query. "No, there is not."

Philippe was genuinely puzzled. "But as head bodyguard –"

"The passages allow the royal family to move undetected about the palace. I have been granted knowledge of them and access to them, but in the unlikely event of a breach of security, I will be fighting alongside my Musketeers. Come, the entrance to your chamber is up ahead."

Leaving the queen mother's door, he led the way to another exit farther down the corridor. He pushed it open, and Philippe saw that he was back in his own bedchamber.

"This is fascinating," the young king said as he viewed his room through the open door behind the portrait. "To look at the walls, it is impossible to tell that there is a secret corridor behind them!"

"That is the way it was planned. And that is the tour of the secret passages," he said. "I think it is time we returned to the office and see how Athos is coming with the orders for the captain of the Bastille guards."

He closed the portrait-door, and they made their way back through the passages to the office.

Athos looked up when the bookcase opened, and D'Artagnan and Philippe emerged from behind it. "I have just completed the final draft. It is ready for your approval." He passed the document to D'Artagnan, who read it carefully, then nodded his approval.

"Sounds good." He passed it to Philippe. "All you need to do is sign it, and then I will show you how to use your personal seal."

Philippe carefully read the orders that Athos had written for the care of Louis, and experienced a sensation of inner distress at his role in the confinement of his brother. How strange it was to be solely responsible for the treatment of other people. He could give any order he wished, and knew that it would be obeyed. But he knew that releasing his brother at this time was the one order he must not give. Taking the quill from Athos, he sat down at his desk and signed Louis' name to the bottom of the page. He then passed the document back to D'Artagnan, who folded it and placed it on the desk.

"Your seal is in that drawer on your right," he said. "You will find several sticks of sealing wax there also."

Philippe opened the drawer and saw the items he needed. "This is something we never practiced," he reminded them. Withdrawing the seal and one stick of wax, he placed them on the desk top and waited while D'Artagnan lit a candle and brought it to him.

"Watch while I do this, and then you will practice on the paper that Athos used to write out the list."

Philippe watched attentively while his father melted the tip of the wax stick over the candle flame, and allowed several drops to fall upon the fold of the letter. When it began to harden, he pressed the seal into it, then removed it, revealing the imprint.

"No one will break the seal other than the person to whom it is addressed," D'Artagnan told him.

"That looks simple enough," he said.

"It is very simple, but on the king's documents it must not appear sloppy or ragged. It must look as though you have done it before, so you will practice before you are required to do it in front of your advisors."

Athos folded the list he had written, and placed it on the desk for Philippe to use. "We will destroy this after you have finished."

Philippe held the stick of wax in the flame, watching as it melted in the heat, but he did not get it in the proper place before the first drip of melted wax fell upon the paper, and he understood then why D'Artagnan had insisted he must practice. He looked up, feeling slightly embarrassed, and saw that neither man seemed concerned. Apparently, this was a common mistake the first time.

Holding the wax in the flame again, he positioned it over the paper and this time the wax dropped onto the fold. Setting aside the candle, he picked up the seal and pressed it into the soft wax, leaving the imprint. He smiled, happily. Perfect!

"Keep practicing," Athos said. "It must be perfect every time."

Having been under their instruction before, Philippe knew that he would be required to do this many times before they would be satisfied with his performance, so he continued to melt small blobs of wax over the long fold on the paper until there was no space left. Then, Athos drew a line across the other side of the paper and instructed him to pretend that the line was the fold. Philippe did not mind. Playing with the wax was more interesting than practicing Louis' handwriting. Before long, he was making a perfect seal every time.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

After lunch, Philippe returned to the office with Athos and D'Artagnan, and listened attentively while they explained the national policies that Louis had enacted and discussed the war in which Raoul had fought and died. Raoul was not mentioned during this discussion, but he could see the rather haunted look in Athos's eyes as they spoke of the war, and knew that his son was on his mind.

As evening neared, a knock at the door interrupted their conversation, and Philippe called, "Enter!"

The door opened, and Claude stepped inside, bowed deeply, then approached the desk.

"Sire, I have the release order ready for you to sign." He placed it on the desk, and stepped back while Philippe read it carefully.

He nodded, approvingly. "Very good, Claude. Exquisitely worded, as always."

Claude beamed at the rare praise from his monarch, and watched with satisfaction as the king picked up the quill and signed his name to the document. Claude then folded it and handed it back to him, and he understood that on this document he must use the seal that he had been practicing.

With barely a hesitation, he opened the drawer and removed the seal and a stick of wax again while Claude moved the candle closer. He was very much aware that Athos and D'Artagnan were watching as he held the tip of the wax in the flame, then allowed the droppings to fall on the fold. It was perfectly accomplished, and as it began to harden, he pressed the seal into it, leaving a perfect imprint. Laying aside the seal, he passed the order back to Claude.

"When you send that to the Bastille, please send this as well," Philippe said, presenting him with the instructions Athos had written.

Claude took it and looked at it, noticing that it was sealed, preventing curious eyes from inspecting it. He looked up, a trace of offense in his eyes. "I would have been happy to have written this for you, your majesty."

"I'm sure you would have, but it is regarding matters that are military in nature, and Athos and D'Artagnan have a better understanding of such things."

"I see. I wished to inform you also that Gerard and I have spent the afternoon discussing your plans to renovate the poorer sections of Paris, and we have come up with a plan that we feel will work. May I describe it to you, Sire?"

"By all means."

"Well, your majesty, because the poverty is so widespread, it would take many months, perhaps years, for the local carpenters to complete the work moving from one area to the next, even if we used every available carpenter in the city, and there are insufficient funds in the coffers to hire skilled workers over such an extended period of time. So we thought perhaps the residents themselves would be willing to do the work in their own communities. There are plenty of able-bodied men who should be happy to accept the renovating project, and plenty of women to do the cleaning. We would supply them with the materials and pay them a modest wage."

"A modest wage?" Philippe asked, suspiciously. "It is important to keep the cost down as much as possible, yet we must not defeat our purpose. Our goal is to help ease the poverty and provide them with adequate funds to buy food for their families."

"Believe me, Sire, they will be grateful for any money they receive. Since the government will not be paying for the executioner or the artist to paint your portrait, it extends the available funds somewhat, and we believe this is the best way to achieve the beautification process rapidly with the least cost. We will strive to provide them with a fair wage, I assure you."

Discreetly, Philippe glanced over Claude's shoulder to gauge the reaction of Athos and D'Artagnan. After a moment, D'Artagnan nodded his approval.

Philippe shifted his attention back to the advisor. "That is an excellent idea, Claude, but alas I am compelled to remind you of the broad expanse of poverty around the city. I fear it will do little to alleviate the problem. Once the work is completed, the poverty will return."

"This is true, Sire," Claude agreed. "It is only a temporary solution, but it buys us some time to think of other ideas that might help to alleviate the problem on a more long-term basis."

"Yes, indeed it does. Draft the order and send out inquiries to the residents to see if they are agreeable to such a project." He pointed to the documents that were still clutched in Claude's hand. "And get those documents sent immediately. I want that farmer home with his family by nightfall."

"Right away, your majesty." Claude bowed again, and made his exit to carry out his orders.

When the door was closed, Philippe leaned back in the chair and observed his father. "Do you think their plan will work?"

"I see no reason why it shouldn't," he said. "It will still be an expensive project, so we will have to be careful about frivolous spending on other matters. Which means no more balls for a while," he added with a teasing smile.

Philippe answered his father's smile with one of his own. "That does not bother me in the slightest. I would like the time to get accustomed to the palace and procedures before we hold another ball. This idea of paying the residents to do the work; it is such a simple plan, why is it that no one has thought of it before?"

"Sometimes the best plans are the simplest," Athos agreed, "And sometimes the simplest plans are the most elusive. Your advisors are correct: It does buy some time to find other, more lasting ideas."

"I have been thinking about this other advisor, the one who was executed."

"Pierre."

"Yes. I would like to see that his widow is compensated for losing her husband. It may be difficult for her to raise her children alone."

"Yes, you mentioned that back at the village, and as I told you then she may not accept your help. It was Louis who ordered her husband's death and you are now Louis, so she is not likely to respond favorably to your attempts to offer assistance."

"Still, we must try. Perhaps Claude would speak to her."

"You are moving too fast, Philippe," Athos warned. "If you are insistent on helping her, it would be easier and better for now if you allowed me to anonymously slip some money under her door. And then later, after some time has passed and your reputation with the public becomes more agreeable, you can offer to assist with her needs. Right now, it is too much too soon."

"Everything is so complicated," Philippe lamented, exasperated with his inability to openly and immediately alter the plight of the people. "I want so badly to help, but I cannot help because it is not what Louis would have done."

"In time, Philippe," D'Artagnan told him. "I know you want to move forward quickly, but we explained to you why you cannot."

"I know. And I understand. It is just frustrating." Calming himself, he turned to the ex-Musketeer. "Athos, I appreciate your offer to anonymously give money to Pierre's widow on my behalf. Would you be willing to take it to her tonight?"

"I will find a pouch or a purse that we can place it in," Athos responded without hesitation.

"Where do I get the money from?" Philippe asked.

"Even though he does not really need it, Louis keeps some personal funds inside the wardrobe in your bedchamber," D'Artagnan answered. "There should be more than enough there to see her through several months."

Philippe rose from his chair. "I will get it immediately. I will sleep better knowing that she has money for expenses." Without waiting for a response, he strode purposefully to the door and went through it.

Athos and D'Artagnan looked at one another, and both men chuckled with amusement at the young man's youthful enthusiasm.

"He is a good boy, D'Artagnan," Athos said, admiringly. "He wants so much to do the right thing for the people that it will be difficult to rein him in!"

"That was good of you to make the offer the deliver the money to Pierre's widow."

"It seemed to be the only way we could keep him from doing it himself!"

"Yes, he will be a handful," D'Artagnan agreed. "I only wish . . . " He shook his head sadly. "Having him and his mother both here in the palace together is both a joy and a torture for me. They will take their meals together and walk together in the garden or talk in the parlors, and I must watch from a distance, unable to join them. The obedient servant." He shrugged, as if to shake off the feeling of melancholy. "Pay me no heed, Athos. I am happy that he is here, and that is enough."

Athos's eyes were sympathetic, but there was nothing he could say or do to ease his best friend's torment at being unable to openly join his family.


	30. Chapter Thirty

A/N: _Pain d'épices_ is a French gingerbread that dates back to the 10th century. _Pronounced: pah(n) / deh pees_

Chapter Thirty

It was a quiet afternoon. The morning's business duties had been accomplished and lunch had been eaten, and now Philippe had the rest of the day to pass at his leisure. At the village, there had always been things to do: lessons to be learned, a river in which to swim or skip rocks, and his father and the others with which to talk. Here, he was rapidly discovering, things were more formal, and there were fewer opportunities for doing the things he enjoyed, even when he had the time.

He had been king for seven days. Seven incredible days of learning experiences and decisions that he had never dreamed himself capable of accomplishing. It was almost as if he had been born to do these tasks. "You do them well because you understand the plight of your subjects," Athos had told him. It was true; he did understand hunger and poverty, and, above everything else, he desired to be a good king, worthy of the honor of leading the country. And _honor_ is how he thought of it. It was a great privilege to be given the things he now owned, but it was humbling to know that the fate of the nation rested upon his shoulders.

As promised, Athos had anonymously delivered the pouch full of coins to Pierre's widow, and the word that came back to the palace was that she had wept with joy when she had found the unexpected gift. _It was a gift from an angel_, she had declared, but Philippe had not understood the slight smile on the faces of D'Artagnan and Athos when they heard this. Were they teasing him, or did they consider him their own special gift? He did not dwell on it, but he understood that his generosity had pleased them both.

Work on renovating the poorer sections of town had also begun, and Claude reported that the workers could be heard singing as they replaced their dilapidated roofs and cleaned up their streets. For the first time in years, the poor people of Paris had hope, and Philippe felt tremendous satisfaction that their living conditions were improving.

But today, he was nothing short of bored. Walking slowly around his room on this quiet afternoon seeking something to do, he briefly considered taking a horseback ride around the property, but he knew his father was busy with Musketeer duties and he did not wish to take one of the other Musketeers. Athos was away from the palace on personal errands for several hours, and Porthos was helping Aramis with the house in which Louis would be moved. He was on his own to find something with which to pass the time.

A basket of fruit and nuts was standing on the small round table for his pleasure, and he picked up a handful of shelled nuts and popped them into his mouth as he passed. He proceeded to the bureau, behind which was the secret passage leading to Christine's room. They mysterious Christine, who still resided in the room one floor above. The thought of her was enough to arouse his curiosity, as he had yet to see her.

The secret passage which led to her room was one he had not explored, so he went to the bureau and pulled on it. It slid quietly open on well-oiled hinges, leaving no mark on the floor as it swung inward to reveal the circular stone steps behind it. _How clever_, he thought as he stepped into the small space, looking upward toward the door which could not be seen at that angle. He knew he was far too inquisitive, that he should simply turn around and return to his own chamber, but instead of following his own advice, he quietly made his way up those steps. Reaching the top, he found himself standing before the hidden doorway. What secrets lay on the other side? Unable to resist the urge, he pushed the door open just a crack and pressed his eye against it.

He knew that what he was doing was wrong, that he was violating the privacy of another human being, yet his curiosity was so great that he could not force himself to stop. _I'll only take a peek, _he promised himself. _If she's there, I'll immediately close the door._

Through the narrow slit, he saw the large bed in which his brother had shared company with Christina. The bed had been carefully made, its covers precisely arranged with not a wrinkle. Beyond that, he saw the various furnishings and feminine decorations, but there was no sign of an occupant. Shifting position, he pushed the door open just a fraction more, providing a better view of the room.

A slight sensation of movement caught his eye, and he looked toward it. A woman sat at a dressing table, brushing her hair before a mirror. Mesmerized, he watched her breathlessly for several moments, afraid that if he inhaled or exhaled, it would alert her to his presence. As he watched, it was apparent why his brother had been so taken by her. He had seen women who were more beautiful; the lovely Genevieve who had been his dance partner at the ball, for one. But it was undeniable that there was something about Christine that captured a man's attention. But he had not forgotten Athos's words. She was the one woman he must never get too close to.

At that moment, her eyes were drawn to the reflection of the secret door in the mirror, and he saw her recoil slightly in alarm, and she started to turn around. Instantly, he pulled the door closed and fled, starting back down the steps so rapidly that he feared he would lose his footing. He took the final few steps in one huge bound, darted into his chamber and pushed the bureau back into position just as she opened her door above.

"Louis?" she called, her voice echoing slightly down the staircase.

Of course he did not answer, but pressed his back against the wall beside the bureau, calming his pounding heart. That had been a foolish thing to do! She had clearly seen him looking at her. What must she think? The answer to that was obvious: She thought he was Louis, sneaking a peek through the secret door, but he imagined that Louis would never have run like a frightened child!

He backed slowly away from the bureau, wiping his sweating palms against his breeches, but the bureau did not open as he had expected. Upon finding the staircase empty, perhaps she had decided it had been her imagination, that her eyes were playing tricks on her in the mirror. Or perhaps she was not allowed to enter the king's chamber. Either way, it appeared that the incident was concluded.

Moving into the sitting area of his chambers, he passed the table with the fruit and nuts, but did not reach for it this time. The unpleasant experience at Christine's door had stolen his appetite.

Facing the huge portrait on the wall, he was reminded of the more familiar secret passage that it concealed. The hidden corridors fascinated him, and he decided to utilize them for his amusement. And then, after exploring them at his leisure for awhile, he could perhaps pay his mother a visit.

Recalling from his tour with D'Artagnan that it was dark in the passages, he lifted a candle from the table and, moving to the giant portrait, he opened the frame and stepped behind it.

The flame danced and shuddered as the portrait frame drifted closed behind him, casting flickering shadows on the smooth walls of the narrow tunnel. He had never been inside a cave before, but he imagined that it must something similar to this, only made by nature instead of by man. The candlelight afforded him better opportunity to view the tunnel, and he noticed right away that the walls were bare, attesting to the covert environment of the royal family's escape route. He had no idea what they might need to escape from, but they would provide a bored young man with an afternoon of exploring.

First, he passed the shallow alcove that opened into his mother's chambers, and he paused there for a moment to gaze at her door. He had visited his mother in her parlor several times during the week, but he really had no idea how spent her day. He only knew that before his arrival, she had rarely ventured out of them. Even now, it seemed that she spent most of her time in her apartments.

The air was still and very warm inside the hidden corridor, with no breeze to cool it, and he wiped perspiration from his forehead with his sleeve as he continued. Lifting the candle higher, he observed the ceiling, noticing that it was as high as those in his room, providing plenty of headroom. The ceiling appeared to be stained by smoke, indicating that candles had been utilized in there before, but had not been cleaned because the servants did not know of its existence.

Next, he passed the door that D'Artagnan had opened for him to demonstrate the exit in the corridor behind the tapestry, and he noticed that the candle flickered slightly from a barely felt breeze that came beneath it. He moved on, following the narrow maze as it meandered through the palace, trying to remember where each hidden door opened up without actually opening them, fearful that someone would see him.

When he reached the end of it, he turned the corner and approached the exit that D'Artagnan had stated opened near the main staircase. The temptation to open it was almost overpowering, but because it was a heavily traveled area, he applied his self-discipline and resisted.

Standing there at the secret exit, he sighed with disappointment. It had not been as much fun as he had anticipated. It was just a narrow hallway like any other hallway, except for the fact that few knew of its existence. Turning, he made his way back toward the recess that led to his mother's chambers.

As he neared her door, his eyes fell upon the flame on the candle, watching it curiously. It was shuddering, as if disturbed by a very slight breeze. But where was it coming from? Slowly, he turned a circle, searching for a possible source, but could see nothing that stood out as a doorway. Perhaps it was his mother's doorway that generated the breeze, for D'Artagnan had not indicated that there was another concealed doorway in that location.

With his eyes on the candle flame, he circled again, observing the way it continued to dance and flicker, fed by a mild influx of air from somewhere. No, it did not appear to be coming from his mother's doorway, but there was definitely a place nearby where the air was seeping in.

Kneeling down, he held the flame close to the floor, moving it slowly along the wall in an attempt to locate the source. Suddenly, the flame blew out, leaving him in the duskiness. Rising up again, he felt along the wall, probing and pushing until finally, he felt the wall give slightly. He pushed harder and the secret door opened a crack. Light penetrated the hidden tunnel, and he could see the edge of a bookcase positioned at the opening. The bookcase was attached to it, like the one in the office and like the bureau in his own chamber.

Excitement surged through him at his unexpected discovery. D'Artagnan had not mentioned this particular exit.

He pushed harder, forcing the obviously seldom used door completely open, and stepped into the room. It was large and sparsely furnished, as if it was uncertain what the room was intended to be. Curiously, he turned to face the bookcase and was not surprised to find it empty. A round table and two chairs were positioned near the window, but there were no paintings or portraits on the bare walls. It was a nice room, he concluded, but at the moment it was very cold and impersonal.

Moving to the room's main door, he opened it to orient his position, and found that he was still in the royal corridor. His mother's rooms were next door, and he could see his father's open door across the hall and farther down. This was simply one of the closed doors that he had not investigated until that moment. Pulling the door closed again, he returned to the secret passage and after carefully closing the hidden door again, he proceeded across the passage to his mother's chambers.

Pausing outside her door, he knocked lightly. "Mother?" He then waited, giving her sufficient time to answer.

After a moment, the door opened, and she smiled at him in greeting. "Philippe. I must tell you, it gave me a bit of a start to hear a knock coming from outside my wall! I was not expecting you. Come inside."

"I hope I did not disturb you," he said as he stepped hesitantly into her private bedchamber. During his previous visits to her, he had joined her in her parlor, but the tour or her rooms had not included the bedroom.

She embraced him. "No, you could never disturb me, my son. I am glad you are here. There is no need to sneak in through the passages, though. You are welcome come any time you wish."

"Father showed me the passages earlier in the week, and I was just exploring them by myself to have something to do," he explained, deciding to keep to himself the fact that he had gone up the secret staircase and startled Christine. He knew she would disapprove, and would probably inform D'Artagnan that he had disregarded their advice to avoid her.

"You were bored," she concluded, to which he gave an affirmative nod of his head. "There are days like that, even for me. But not today. I was just reading a book by the window where the light is good, and preparing to enjoy some pastries. Would you care to join me?"

"Yes, I would like that."

He looked curiously around the room as she took his hand and led him to the small table near the window where she had placed her book. It was obviously a woman's room, for it was very feminine in its soft colors and decorations. The bed was positioned near the corner, its curtains drawn to conceal her very private area. Her window draperies were open wide, permitting the sunshine to brighten the interior.

She took her favorite chair, and indicated that he should take the one opposite her. "The chef sent up a loaf of _pain d'épices_. He knows I have a fondness for it, but I am pleased you came to share it with me, since I cannot begin to eat it all." She placed a slice on a small plate and set it before him, then served herself.

He took a bite of the warm bread, and nodded approvingly. "It is good, but not as good as Angelina's."

"Who is Angelina?" she asked, curiously.

"She is Porthos's new mistress and cook. She is the one who prepared our meals at the village, and I have never tasted food so elegantly prepared as hers. No matter what it is, she can make it taste like something special. He brought her back with us."

"Perhaps we should attempt to add this wonderful cook to our staff," she suggested.

"Porthos would never part with her, and I do not believe she would ever part with him. I think they will eventually get married."

She smiled, knowingly. "Well, I would never propose to break up a romance, but I would very much like to taste her cooking sometime."

"Mother, I was wondering about something," Philippe said, changing the subject abruptly. "What is that room next door to yours, the one on the other side of the passages?"

She tilted her head slightly in thought, determining the room of which he was speaking. "I believe Louis intended that to be a private parlor of some kind. He never had it finished, though, and I am certain it has never been used. He moved on to other projects, and probably forgot about it."

"Did you know that it has a secret door which opens into the passages?" he asked, watching her carefully for her reaction.

"No, I was unaware of that, but it does not surprise me," she replied. "He was very interested in the palace security and providing the family with secrets ways of escape should the need ever arise. Of course, it never has, but I know he used them sometimes to move about the palace without being observed."

They fell silent for several moments as Philippe shifted his attention to the view from the window, pondering an idea that had crept into his mind. "Mother, may I ask you a personal question?" he asked at last.

She looked up from her cake, her dark eyes meeting the bright blue eyes of her son, eyes that were so like those of his father. "Of course."

"Has it been difficult for you? Keeping your relationship with Father a secret, and maintaining your distance from him all these years?"

She was surprised by the unexpected questions, and momentarily at a loss for words. Recovering, she set her plate on the table. "I will always love your father," she replied, honestly. She glanced quickly at the door that led to her parlor to verify that it was firmly closed. She lowered her voice. "We decided long ago that we must distance ourselves from one another. We risked everything, and it was better that we step away from it and live our lives apart. Yes, it has been difficult, seeing him from my windows and longing for what could never be, but we knew that we had no choice."

"What if you had a choice? What if you could be together? Would you want it?"

She smiled patiently at what she perceived to be youthful curiosity. "Since there will never be such a choice for us, it does no good to dwell on it."

He glanced toward the door which led into her parlor, where he had shared tea with her a few days earlier, and wondered where her attendant was at that moment. "What of your attendant? Does she ever come in here?"

"Not without being invited. Why so many questions?"

He shrugged, and decided it was time to back off. For now. "Just curious, I guess. Everything is so new to me, and there is so much to learn."

"This must be a very drastic change for you," she agreed. "But it is a change for the better. You will grow accustomed to it in time."

He nodded his agreement, content simply to be in her company, then shifted the conversation to more general topics, but the secret room remained tucked away in the back of his mind.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Later in the afternoon, Athos returned and he and D'Artagnan worked together in the captain's room. Porthos had come by several times during the week, but spent most of his time helping Aramis with the renovations on the house. The priest was conspicuously absent until that evening, when he paid D'Artagnan an unexpected visit at his office.

Athos was standing beside the window, watching the groundskeepers as they trimmed the shrubbery, when he heard the footfalls as Aramis entered the room. He turned around with a smile. D'Artagnan was right; each of them did have an identifying way of walking.

"Aramis," he said, pleasantly.

Aramis nodded in greeting. "You're looking well, Athos," he replied. "I mean that," he added for emphasis, alluding to the intense state of grief he had suffered over the past few weeks.

"I feel well," he agreed.

D'Artagnan folded the sheet of parchment he had been writing, sealed it, then passed it to a waiting courier. "Take this to Lieutenant Andre," he instructed.

The courier accepted the document, then hastily left the room. D'Artagnan rose from his desk and closed the door to assure privacy.

"Aramis, I am pleased to see you," he said as they embraced. "How are the renovations coming?"

"Extremely well. And things must be going very well at the palace," he said as he opened the plans and spread them out on D'Artagnan's desk. "I heard about Philippe's order to renovate the poverty-stricken areas. My Jesuit friends are astonished that the king would even consider such a proposition. This will go a very long way in repairing the integrity of the crown. I knew I had made a wise decision in placing him on the throne."

D'Artagnan glanced at Athos, who rolled his eyes in mock-disgust at the priest's self-ingratiating attitude, and suppressed a smile. "Well, you have certainly done an admirable job," he said, affably.

Aramis looked up, correctly interpreting the good-humored sarcasm. "Porthos says that I tend to pat myself on the back a lot," he admitted. "I must try to overcome the habit. And I did have some help, didn't I?" He indicated the large sheet of paper he carried, which was rolled into a tube and bound with thread, which he removed. "I thought perhaps you should see what we are doing with the house." He unrolled the paper and placed it on the desk, holding the edges down by placing a book on each end. "As you can see, this is the second story floor plan of the house." He placed his hand on a section of it to demonstrate its importance. "This is the area I have selected for the prisoner. The walls are very solid, and there is a very nice suite of rooms already positioned there, consisting of a bed chamber with a private dressing area, and a very large sitting room."

D'Artagnan leaned over the plans, his eyes carefully studying the quarters that would house his elder son, while Athos moved closer to observe them with his own degree of scrutiny.

"To provide him with additional space, I have decided to place a door in this wall of the sitting room," Aramis continued, pointing with his forefinger at a place on the diagram. "It will lead to a room which I will convert to a dining hall. We will place a nice table with some chairs in this area. Over here," he added, moving his finger to another position in the same room, "I am installing a method of delivering his meals to him without necessitating contact with the hired help. We will cut a hole in the floor large enough to bring up a tray of food and drink with the help of a rope and pulley. I am constructing a cupboard to house it, for aesthetic purposes. A bell will notify him when the meal is ready. He will simply open the cupboard door and pull up his meal."

"That seems like a tempting escape route," Athos objected. "What is to prevent him from using that rope to lower himself down to the first floor during the night?"

Aramis looked surprised. "That may present a problem," he admitted, raising his hand to scratch his head. "I thought I had considered everything, but I must have overlooked that small detail." He pondered the problem a moment, then said, "We will use a small pulley, one that will not support his weight. That should discourage him."

"A fall from the second floor to the first would hurt, but it is not likely to cause lasting injury to a man who is prepared for it," D'Artagnan said. "Small pulley or large, it is not likely to deter him. It will also require occasional maintenance."

"I have a better idea," Athos said. "Instead of cutting a hole in the floor, simply cut a small opening in the wall leading into the corridor outside the dining room. It will be hinged like a small door, but will contain a lock on the outside. Build the cupboard against it as planned, but when his meal is ready, someone will carry it up, unlock the small door, and set the tray inside the cupboard. After the door is closed and locked, she will ring the bell to alert him that his meal is ready. He will then open the cupboard door from the other side and retrieve the meal."

Aramis was nodding, approvingly. "Yes, yes, that will work. I will get my carpenters on it right away. Also, since the dining area contains more room than he will require, I am installing a private staircase which will lead to the first floor and will open into the courtyard. It will remain locked, and my guard, Herve, will keep the key. His wife is making a cloth mask for him. There are windows in the room above on the third floor from which he can be seen in the courtyard, so whenever he wishes to go outside, he must wear the mask."

"I wish there was a way around that," D'Artagnan said. "To never feel the sun upon your face would be a terrible thing."

"I see no way around it," Aramis said, sympathetically. "Now, through this second door on the other side of the dining room is a library. I am having the corridor entrance to it permanently sealed to prevent entrance or exit. The former owners of the house owned an enviable selection of books and manuscripts, enough to keep him occupied for quite some time." He spread his hands, proudly. "And there you have it. The collection of rooms will occupy an entire side of the house, plenty of room to move about."

Athos was nodding, approvingly. "It looks good. He will have not only a large space of his own, but many comforts."

D'Artagnan sighed, heavily. "Comforts yes, but no freedom." Catching a glance from the other two men, he quickly shook himself out of the sudden melancholy that befell him whenever he thought of Louis' incarceration. "Pay me no heed," he said with feigned cheerfulness that the others saw through immediately. "I know there is no choice."

Athos placed a comforting hand on his best friend's shoulder and gave it an affectionate squeeze, but he made no comment. As time went on, the pain would ease.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

D'Artagnan remained up late into the night, going over the plans that Aramis had left for him regarding the house in which Louis would soon be moved. The plans detailed the rooms that were being redesigned for the former king, the private staircase that would permit access to the courtyard, and the high wall around it which was being reinforced and the gate permanently sealed.

He tossed the plans down on his desktop with a deep sigh, thinking that the proposal had a troubling similarity to confining an animal to a paddock to prevent its escape. Only this was not an animal; this was his elder son.

He leaned back in his chair and dragged his fingers through his hair in frustration. It would not be a satisfying life for Louis, but what else could they do? The alternative was much worse. He could not bear the thought of him spending the rest of his life in the Bastille, but he certainly could not be permitted to wander around free. At least at the house and in the garden he would have a little bit of personal freedom. But it wasn't really freedom. Because he risked being seen by the servants from the rooms above, Aramis continued to insist that he must wear the cloth mask any time he was outside, and because he could not be trusted to willingly comply with that directive, it would be necessary for a guard to keep watch over him during his time in the gardens.

After a moment, he picked up the plans again and studied the diagram of the rear of the house where Louis' quarters would be. His rooms would take up much of the space on the second floor of the residence, but there were rooms above and below with windows from which the servants might see his face, necessitating the use of the cloth mask whenever he was outside.

D'Artagnan shook his head, negatively. There must be a way to allow Louis outside without the mask, giving him greater opportunity to enjoy the sun and the breeze.

His eyes fell upon the sketch of the windows and the wooden shutters. Could the shutters on that side of the house be permanently sealed, thereby blocking the view to the courtyard? He leaned over the plans, studying them more carefully, taking note of the number of windows. Louis' windows, obviously, would not need to be sealed, but it would not be too difficult to permanently close those above and below.

"Yes," he murmured to himself. _That would work!_ Each small privilege he could offer his son would go that much farther to improving his life and making his confinement more tolerable.

With renewed optimism, he rolled the plans into a tube again and returned them to his desk drawer, locked it securely, then stood up again and stretched, wincing when he felt his back pop. Down the corridor, he heard the clock strike one o'clock. He knew he should get some sleep, but he now felt too excited and energized to rest, so he moved to the window to look out into the night and wait for drowsiness to come.

After a moment, he detected a movement in the shadows below and tensed, thinking it might be an intruder on the property. Quickly, he extinguished the candles and pressed his face against the glass again, peering out at the individual in an attempt to identify him.

No, it was not a "him". It was the queen mother making her way along the path toward the rose garden. Her pace was slow and casual, her hands occasionally caressing the leaves of a shrub or flowering plant as she passed, enjoying her solitary stroll.

On impulse, realizing that this was an opportunity for a few private moments with her, he rushed to the door of his room and opened it. The corridor was empty, the only guards on duty at this time of night were standing at the entrance to the corridor leading to the royal chambers, so he pulled his door closed behind him and made his way to the nearest entrance to the secret passageways, and slipped into it unnoticed. He did not want to be seen following the queen mother outside again, so he felt his way along the dark passages to the door which opened near the main staircase.

Pushing the door open only a crack, he peered through the narrow opening. A few candles continued to burn at intervals on the wall sconces, illuminating the corridor with just enough light to see, and it was quickly apparent that the hallway was empty, so he slipped quickly through the opening and made his way to the outer door.

She was in the rose garden when he caught up to her, but he did not immediately make his presence known, pausing instead to observe her intently. She wore a simple gown unadorned with jewelry, and her long dark hair tumbled unbound below her waist, and shimmered in the silvery moonlight. Bent at the waist, she gently cupped a rose in the palm of her hand and inhaled its sweet fragrance. In his eyes, she had never looked more beautiful, and his heart ached with longing.

"Anne," he said, softly.

She turned around, and he saw her lips turn up in a pleased smile. "D'Artagnan."

He moved closer. "It is very late. You should be in bed asleep."

"As should you," she responded. "This is not the first time you have sneaked up on me during a moonlight walk," she added with a facetious smile.

"I was thinking about that night while I was at the village with Philippe. Walking hand in hand with you in the garden that night was one of the happiest times of my life."

She offered her hand to him, and he took it in his larger one. "Walk with me tonight. I've been wanting to talk to you, and we must not waste this time that we have alone."

Together, they strolled slowly along the garden paths among the roses. For a while, neither spoke, simply enjoying the peace and solitude of the quiet night and the company of the other, but soon Anne broke the silence.

"Philippe has been on the throne for a week now," she said softly. "Already, I hear there is a change in the attitudes toward the crown by the common people. It is said that he is renovating some of the poorer sections of the city, and paying the residents to do the work."

"It isn't much and it is only temporary, but earning an income means a great deal to men who are trying to feed their families."

"Given the differences in their upbringing, it amazes me that he has settled into his role so easily."

"More easily than he had expected, I think," he agreed. "Yet he remains determined to never let it corrupt him, as it did his brother."

At the mention of her elder son, her expression became more somber. "Philippe came for tea the other day, and he told me that the renovations on the house are coming along nicely."

"Yes. Aramis provided me with the floor plans this afternoon. That is why I am still up. I was examining them to see if any changes needed to be made. They are installing doors to adjacent rooms to enlarge his living space. He will even have a library with plenty of books to read."

"That pleases me very much," she said approvingly. She turned her face toward him, and he saw the hope in her eyes. "How soon will it be ready?"

"It is difficult to predict, but if everything comes together as planned, I would say within a month."

The hope was replaced by disappointment. "I know it takes time for these things, but it hurts me deeply to think of my son confined in the mask. First one, and now the other. I want them both free of it."

He squeezed her hand, gently. "I know. I am troubled as well. I will speak to Aramis and see if there is a way to speed things up a bit."

She snuggled close against his arm as they walked. "That would please me." They fell silent again for several minutes, their thoughts centered on their older son, then she asked, "Have you seen him?"

"No. I do not think he will ever want to see me again, and I must admit, I do not think I could stand seeing him while he is at the Bastille. Seeing him in the mask was something I never want to see again." He stopped walking, and they turned to face one another. "I have seen many terrible things in my life, but nothing can compare with seeing my son placed in that mask. The image has tormented me ever since."

She reached up and gently caressed his cheek with her hand. "One day soon, it will be removed and he can live out his life in comfort."

Their eyes met and locked, and unable to resist any longer, he leaned forward to kiss her. She accepted and welcomed his kiss, their lips moving together with suppressed passion. When they parted, she slipped her arms around his waist and leaned against him.

"Oh, D'Artagnan," she whispered. "I love you so much. Sometimes, I feel my heart is not big enough to contain all the love I feel for you."

He held her tighter in his arms and kissed the side of her head. "I wish things were different, that you and I could simply be together in spite of the differences in our social status. Why must protocol be so strict? Were it not for our sons, I would take you away from here, to England perhaps, where we could live out our lives in peace."

"And I would go with you willingly," she agreed. "Were it not for our boys. But we cannot leave them."

"No. We cannot."

They remained locked in each other's embrace until the clock struck the half-hour, reminding them that they were at risk of discovery.

"Come. I will walk you back to the palace," he said.

Still holding hands, they turned and started slowly back toward the palace, savoring every remaining moment they had.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Philippe awakened feeling slightly too warm, so he pushed down the covers and rolled over onto his back. Folding his hands behind his head, he gazed up toward the ceiling, where the curtains that surrounded the bed were gathered, thinking about the past week. Things had been moving so fast. His days were totally filled with the business of the country, riding the property with his father, walking the corridors with his mother, or simply sitting with her in her parlor, talking about their lives. He had never known such happiness, for he now had the one thing he had never been a part of before – a family.

A smile formed on his lips as he thought of his parents. Even though he was rarely in the company of both of them together, he loved having them under the same roof with him. Perhaps he could order food be sent to his room, and they could both join him there, where they could have dinner together as a family.

Unable to go back to sleep, he got up and moved to the window where a long sliver of silvery moonlight shone through the glass. It was a beautiful night, clear and bright with a host of stars in the heavens.

A movement attracted his attention, and he squinted toward it, wondering what it was. For a moment, in the distance, he was unable to locate it, for it had passed behind a clump of tall shrubbery. When they emerged, he saw them more clearly; two people were moving slowly among the roses, a man and a woman. As his eyes focused on them intently, he knew that they were holding hands. He could almost feel the love between them, and knew immediately that they were his parents. Seeking a few minutes alone, they had apparently agreed to meet in the middle of the night.

He sighed, heavily, feeling the weight of the hopelessness that they must be experiencing. To have a love so strong, and be unable to act upon that love must be a frustrating thing.

Reluctant to spy on them, he moved away from the window, but his mind was working on formulating a plan.


	31. Chapter Thirty One

Chapter Thirty One

Knowing that Aramis had spent the night at the Cathedral with the intention of returning to the house early in the morning, D'Artagnan sent a courier to him, requesting his presence as soon as possible on a matter of urgency. Apparently thinking the worst, the priest arrived within the hour, breathless from the hard ride to the palace.

"D'Artagnan, I came as soon as I got your message. What is wrong?" he said as he swiftly entered the Musketeer captain's room, then pulled up in surprise to find his old friend calmly going over paperwork at his desk.

D'Artagnan looked up and seemed equally surprised that the priest was out of breath and wore a worried expression. Turning to the guard who stood beside the desk, he said, "This is a private matter. Please close the door as you leave."

The guard immediately departed, closing the door behind him, and leaving the captain and the priest alone together.

Aramis stepped forward, holding up the letter as evidence. "You said to come immediately on a matter of urgency," he reminded him. "I came expecting to find that something had happened with the king."

"No, nothing like that. Forgive me. I should have better explained my need to see you. It is a matter of urgency, though, for Louis' sake. I have been studying these plans you provided yesterday, and I had an idea I wish to discuss with you."

He opened his desk and withdrew the plans and spread them on his desk. Aramis moved closer to look.

"All of these rooms at the rear of the house on the second floor will belong to Louis, correct?" D'Artagnan asked, to which Aramis nodded in agreement. "Your concerns are that the servants might look out the windows above and below and see him in the courtyard."

"If this is about the cloth mask, my friend, I see no way around it," the priest said, perceptively. "When he is in the courtyard, he must wear it to avoid being seen and possibly recognized. Only two of the servants will know his identity; Herve the groundskeeper and his wife Marie, who will be head housekeeper. The other servants, such as the cook, the scullery maid, and the other housekeepers _must_ be prevented from seeing his face."

While Aramis was speaking, D'Artagnan had raised his hand as if to interrupt, and when the priest stopped speaking, he said, "The answer is this: We will seal the shutters above and below on that side of the house and forbid access to those rooms to anyone except Herve and Marie. That will prevent an accidental viewing of the courtyard while he is in it. Not only will he be able to go into the yard without the mask, he may go any time he desires."

Aramis looked startled that D'Artagnan would even suggest such a thing. "Any time he desires?"

"Why not? He cannot get over the wall, and the shutters will be sealed so he cannot get into the house on the lower level. The only way in or out will be via the stairs in his own chambers. There is no reason why he should not be permitted this freedom."

Aramis was quiet for a long moment as he struggled to find an objection. Finding none at the moment, he said, "Sealing those shutters will take some time."

"There are not that many windows, Aramis," D'Artagnan told him. "Even with only one man working on it, it should take no longer than a few days to nail the shutters closed. And the doors to all the upstairs rooms already have locks on them. Keep them locked as added protections, and give the keys to Herve for safekeeping. There are plenty of other rooms on the front side of the house for the servants to live and work."

The priest's eyes studied the plans and diagrams, counting the windows that would need to be sealed, and finally nodded his agreement. "Very well, then. It will require additional safeguards on the lower level than merely nailing the shutters, but I will get my engineers on it and see what we can come up with."

"Thank you, Aramis. Giving him as much freedom as possible means a great deal to me."

"It is only for your sake that I am agreeing to this."

D'Artagnan rolled up the plans and returned them to his desk. "Thank you for coming so quickly. The sooner we can get started on it, the sooner we can get him moved. Anne is most anxious about this. She asked about it last night. When is the soonest that we can expect to move him?"

"The work has been going very well over the past week, but there is still much to be done. We have to cut doors in the walls where none existed before, and permanently seal doors that previously provided access to the rooms that will be his. Athos, Porthos, and I have all been helping with the labor in an effort to move things forward more quickly, but at this point it is still difficult to predict a date when it will be completed. Because of the need for secrecy, we have very few workers, and I have to obtain lumber and stone and mortar. These things take time. I would say at least another four or five weeks, and that is being extremely optimistic."

D'Artagnan was visibly disappointed. "Four or five more weeks that he must wear that cursed mask." He moved to the window, observing the servants who were working in the gardens outside. "It is so painful . . . " His voice trailed.

Aramis watched him for a moment. He and his friends had repeatedly offered comforting words, but as a man who had never been a parent, he had trouble comprehending the pain of seeing one's child suffer. "D'Artagnan, we must be given the time to do this right. We cannot afford any mistakes. There is too much to lose."

D'Artagnan turned to face him again. "You are right. You and your workers must take the time necessary to do the job correctly."

Aramis placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it affectionately. "We will do our best to finish as quickly as possible. You have my word on that."

"You word is good enough. Will you stay for lunch?"

"Thank you, but I must be going. We've so much work to do."

"Then I will see you out." He opened the door and the two men stepped into the corridor.

"Father Aramis!"

Both men turned around and saw Philippe walking toward them from his chamber with a serious expression on his face. Immediately, they bowed to their king.

"Might I have a word with you? In private," he added.

"Um, yes," Aramis replied. "I was just leaving, but I can postpone my plans for a few more minutes."

"Good. Come with me." Philippe turned on his heel and returned to his quarters, waiting at the door for the priest to catch up.

As he entered the king's chamber, Aramis paused to look down the corridor at D'Artagnan, both of them wondering what was on the young man's mind. Aramis gave a quick shrug, indicating that he had no idea what would be discussed, then stepped into the entryway.

"Please close the door behind you," Philippe commanded. "I do not wish to be disturbed."

Aramis closed the door and entered the sitting area of the room. "Is something wrong?" he asked.

"I need your help with something. A personal matter."

Aramis shrugged. "Anything, your majesty."

Philippe walked slowly to the window and gazed out at the garden, his mannerisms so much like D'Artagnan that Aramis could not help but smile at the similarities. For a long time, the young man did not speak.

Aramis cocked his head slightly, puzzled by the king's quiet contemplations. "Are you all right, Philippe?"

Philippe nodded. "I am fine. It is just . . . I was looking out my window late last night and saw my parents walking back from the garden. They must have met there in the middle of the night just so they could have a few minutes alone together. I don't know what they were talking about, but I could feel the love between them in the way they held hands and the way they looked at each other. Before we left the village, Father told me that I must not take on his problems, but the truth is that I want them to be together."

Aramis nodded his head slowly, understanding the young man's desires. "I know you want your parents to be together, but you know that is not possible, Philippe," he said. "They understand the consequences of bringing their relationship into the open. It would bring about questions that they cannot answer without exposing you."

"I am not talking about bringing it into the open. I have a plan, one that I think will work, but it involves you and the others. Especially you, being a priest."

"What did you have in mind?"

He turned away from the window and his eyes met those of the priest. "I want you to marry them."

A mildly amused smile spread across Aramis's face as he absorbed the king's words, thinking him very young and naïve. "Your majesty, I know you want them to be happy and to be together, but do you have any idea what you are suggesting? Even if I were to marry them, it would not solve any of the problems that currently exist for them. Married or not, they cannot truly be together and they cannot even be seen together in a manner that would be considered inappropriate for their ranks. That is why they met in the garden in the middle of the night, away from prying eyes."

"I know that." The young man smiled a mysterious smile. "Come; I want to show you something."

Philippe walked to the portrait of the old king, the king everyone believed was his father, and opened the secret passage. With a backward look at the priest, beckoning him to follow, he slipped behind the portrait into the shadowy corridor that was known but to a few.

Curious, Aramis followed.

"I have been doing some exploring," Philippe explained as they made their way along the dusky tunnel. "And I found something very interesting."

Aramis waited for him to continue, but Philippe remained silent for several moments. Finally, he paused beside a panel that appeared to have no significance. To his surprise, however, the young king pushed on the panel and it slid forward, revealing a room beyond and the bookcase that concealed it.

Philippe stepped into it, followed by the inquisitive priest who found himself inside a room that was clearly not being utilized.

"My father has been living in a small room that serves as both his bedroom and his office. During the day, he keeps the curtain closed to conceal his bed. After all his years of service, I think he deserves better than that. I propose redecorating this room to serve as his bedroom. The secret passage will provide him with access to my mother's chamber. They can visit each other any time they wish. No one will ever know." He smiled with amusement at the priest's surprised face. "Your expression tells me that you were unaware that the passages included this room."

"It was not in Louis' original design. The passages were intended to connect the royal apartments and provide the king with a separate exit in time of emergency."

"An interesting mistake, don't you think?" Philippe asked with a smile. "Something like fate."

"I doubt if it was a mistake, Philippe. If it is here, then Louis must have designed it that way and kept its existence secret. Another secret exit for him to make use of if necessary."

"I have no need for this room, so it will be perfect as his bedroom. The other room will continue to be his office."

Aramis opened his mouth to object, an automatic reaction to what he had considered an impossible situation, but could not find an adequate argument to present against it. He moved slowly around the room, examining it. "What are your father's thoughts on this? Have you spoken to him of your plans?"

"Not yet. I wanted to talk to you first to get your opinion. There is no other priest who is privy to the secrets we share. If they are married, the service must be conducted by you, but if you see anything wrong with my plan, I need to know about it. The last thing I want to do is set them up for exposure."

Aramis's examination of the room took him back to Philippe's side, and he gazed at the younger man fondly. "You love them both a great deal, don't you?"

"With all my heart," came the immediate response. "They have suffered in silence all these years, loving one another but keeping it inside, content to live like this because of their son, the king. Well, _this_ king wishes to unite them; to grant them the happiness they deserve." He clutched at Aramis's cassock with near desperation. "They have sacrificed so much for their king and their country. Porthos's estate has a private chapel. They could be married there."

"That chapel hasn't been used since his wife died. It is probably full of dust and cobwebs."

"Then we will clean it up!" Philippe retorted. "They have earned this, Aramis. Please, I need your help."

Aramis smiled, gently. "Your mind has been working very hard on this, I would think."

"I have thought of little else since yesterday."

He glanced around the room again, intrigued by its close proximity to the queen's chamber. "And it would seem to be a rather fateful location, wouldn't it? You realize, of course, that a marriage between them would also legitimize you."

"I had not thought of that," Philippe said.

"I didn't think you had," Aramis said, fondly. "It is not your way to think of yourself. I will give this some thought and see if I can find any problems that need to be dealt with. At this point, however, I can think of no reason why we cannot proceed with your plan. _If_ your parents agree, of course."

"Why wouldn't they agree?" Philippe asked.

"There is still a bit of danger that goes with it. What if someone should come looking for him in this room while he is with the queen in hers? How would he explain his absence?"

Philippe sighed. "I had not thought of that, either."

"Well, we must think of that and anything else that might come up. They have accepted their position in life, Philippe. They may not wish to change it. The decision is theirs."

"Agreed."

"My advice is this: talk it over with your father and see if he is receptive to the idea. If he is, then we will proceed. But for now, I must take your leave. There is still much to do with the renovations on the house, and D'Artagnan has just altered my plans a bit, so I must relay the changes to my workers. Let me know what is decided. If they wish to be married, it would be my pleasure to conduct the service."

"Thank you, Aramis," Philippe said gratefully, reaching out to shake the priest's hand. "This means a lot to me."

"Speak to your father, and then we will talk again," Aramis said. Then, with a smile, he slipped into the secret corridor again and made his way back to the king's chamber, leaving Philippe in the room to consider the plans he wanted to implement to ready it for his father.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Less than an hour later, Philippe strolled into D'Artagnan's office, his hands clasped behind his back in a very kingly manner and wearing a serious expression. Pausing just inside the doorway, he silently observed his father at work at his desk. The captain was composing a written order of some kind, his quill scratching busily on the sheet of parchment, pausing only to dip the quill in the ink well.

As he watched his father work, his mind drifted back to the night before, when he had seen him and his mother together in the rose garden, stealing a few private moments together. In his youth and inexperience, it was difficult to understand the history of tradition and the separation of rank that kept his parents apart, but their love and the hopelessness of their situation had been obvious. Why should two people who loved each other so deeply be denied happiness simply because one was royalty and the other was not?

A strong sense of pride stirred in his heart, appreciating the sacrifices that the Musketeer captain had made throughout his life and which he continued to make to assure his place on the throne in addition to the wellbeing of the former king. The sins they had committed by engaging in an affair had been wrong, but they had made their atonement. It was now time to set things right.

Standing near the desk, Lieutenant Andre suddenly snapped to attention, attracting D'Artagnan's notice. Looking up, he saw his son and rose to his feet to acknowledge the king's presence.

"D'Artagnan, would you join me in my chamber for a few minutes?" he asked. Addressing his father by name still felt uncomfortable to him, but he was growing accustomed to the need for it. "I would like to have a private word with you."

"Certainly, your majesty." Turning to Andre, he said, "I will complete the order later."

"Of course, Captain."

Wondering what it was that his son wished to discuss, D'Artagnan followed the young king down the corridor and into his private chambers.

When they were both inside with the twin sets of doors securely closed, Philippe turned to face his father.

"I wanted to speak with you about a private matter," he repeated, then fell silent. This was more difficult than he had imagined. He had expected it to be a simple matter of revealing what he believed was good news, but it had suddenly occurred to him that his father might disapprove of his interference, and as unlikely as it seemed he might even reject the idea. Turning, he walked to the window, the one where he had seen his parents the night before, and stood gazing out across the lawn, trying to decide how he should word his plan.

Observing his son's discomfort, D'Artagnan felt his heart constrict with dread. Was Philippe having second thoughts about being king? Recalling that he had insisted on speaking privately to Aramis earlier, it was apparent that something serious was on Philippe's mind. He moved toward him and placed a hand on his shoulder, which coaxed him to face him once again. "Is something wrong, Philippe?"

Philippe nodded. "Yes. Something is terribly, unfairly, wrong."

D'Artagnan cocked his head slightly at the puzzling comment. "Is it something I can help you with?"

"No. It is something I can help _you_ with . . . if you will let me."

"Philippe, you are speaking in riddles. I am in no need of help at this time. Everything is under control. The palace and the grounds are secure, and the work is progressing on the renovations to the house. All is well."

"Yes, all is well with me, the palace, and the renovations to the house. I am not speaking of those. As I see it, all is _not_ well with _you_."

D'Artagnan's eyebrows lifted. "Me?"

"You and Mother. I saw you from my window last night. I did not intend to spy," he added quickly, catching a sharp glance from D'Artagnan before the captain broke eye contact with his son in favor of the floor. "I was unable to sleep, so I got up and was looking out my window when I saw the two of you walking together from the gardens. You were holding hands."

At the revelation that Philippe had seen them together, D'Artagnan instantly felt uncomfortable as he studied the pattern on the floor and listened while his son offered his explanation for watching them. He was all too aware of the fact that it could just as easily have been someone else who had seen them, someone less friendly toward their relationship, someone who could betray them. Not only would that be dire for them, it would also place Philippe in a difficult situation. "I have grown careless," he concluded, quietly. "I saw her from my window last night as she entered the gardens, and I went to join her. I must resist such a temptation from now on."

Philippe felt his heart sink. Was his father proposing the notion of backing away from their relationship again? "While we were at the village, you told me that your love for her was eternal."

"That does not excuse my carelessness. At that hour, I thought we were safe, but if you saw us, then anyone else in this palace could have seen us also."

Philippe nodded, slowly. "Yes, this is true. That is why we must do something about this problem. I believe I have the answer, if you will agree to it. I have already spoken to Aramis about my plan this morning and he was agreeable, but he said it was your decision. Yours and Mothers."

This brought D'Artagnan's attention back to his son, and he pulled his eyes up from the floor. "What are you talking about? What answer could there be to this situation, except to exercise self-restraint? To go back to avoiding one another. I see no possible way that it can be altered."

"Oh, but there is! Come, I will show you."

With a mysterious little smile, Philippe walked past his curious father, and approached the portrait-door to the secret passages. He turned back, realizing that D'Artagnan had not moved, but continued to stand where he was. Still smiling, he gestured for him to follow, and then he opened the secret door and entered the space behind it.

After a moment, puzzled by his son's curious behavior, the captain followed. When he caught up to him, Philippe was standing near the shallow alcove that he knew opened up to Anne's private chamber. When the younger man was certain he had his full attention, he pushed on the wall panel opposite the queen mother's door, and to D'Artagnan's surprise, it opened up to reveal a room behind it.

"I found this room yesterday while exploring the passages. Aramis was unaware of it, and I can see that you were as well."

"I thought I knew all the secret entrances and exits," D'Artagnan admitted as they stepped from behind the bookcase into the room. He looked around, curiously, recognizing the seldom used area. "I know this room, though. Your brother intended to convert it to a private parlor. That explains the secret door. But I fail to see –"

"I propose making this your private bedchamber," Philippe interrupted, then when his father failed to answer immediately, he gestured to the closed door across the hall and continued, "As you can see, you will have unlimited access to Mother's chamber; it is just across the secret corridor. You could even be legally married. Aramis has agreed to marry the two of you, if that is your wish. No one else would even need to know."

D'Artagnan's gaze was steady, his expression never changing as he looked at his son for a long moment.

Compelled by his father's silence to explain himself, Philippe said, "I know you told me not to take on your problems, but when I found this room, I knew it was the answer to everything! We can put your bed in this little recess; we'll get you a larger bed than that bunk you sleep in now. There is room over there for a table where you can take your meals or catch up on private paperwork. We'll get you a new wardrobe and place it against that wall over there. And you can put your favorite books in this bookcase," he added, indicating the bookcase-door behind him. Turning back to his father, he asked, "Well? What do you think?"

D'Artagnan turned away from his son without acknowledging the proposal, and he maintained a quiet dignity as he moved slowly around the room, to examine it without comment, a surprising reaction in Philippe's opinion, who had eagerly hoped his father would respond with unbridled enthusiasm.

The Musketeer would never have admitted it to anyone, but his pulse had quickened at the very thought that it might be possible for him and Anne to be united, even covertly, but his natural caution was preventing the response that his son had anticipated. It was too simple; there must be a flaw somewhere. In his typically cautious way, he walked slowly around the room, examining the details while attempting to think of any defects in Philippe's plan.

Philippe watched as his father inspected the room, and his youthful buoyancy began to sink a bit. The strength of a love that had survived more than twenty years of separation should have demanded a more positive reaction, in the younger man's mind. How could they not seize this opportunity? Thinking that encouragement would be helpful, he said, "You have done so much for me; let me do this for you!"

"It is a very large room," he said, quietly, at a loss for words to adequately describe his feelings at that moment. "I have never had need for a room this large."

"Father, the size of the room is not what is important here," Philippe said, somewhat impatiently, unable to understand his hesitation. "It is the location and its proximity to Mother's room! And your other room is just down the hall. You could retain it as your office." After another long pause, during which D'Artagnan said nothing, Philippe prompted, "Do you not want to marry Mother?"

The captain's eyes darted back to his son, and one look at Philippe's disappointed face told him that he had failed to offer the response that the young man had expected. "Of course I do. I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with her. But we must think this out very carefully before we proceed. And your mother must agree to it. If she is not interested or is fearful of discovery, then there is no point in pursuing it any farther."

Reassured that his father was interested, Philippe's excitement returned. "Then let's ask her!" Philippe said, returning to the secret door behind the bookcase.

D'Artagnan felt his heart leap inside his chest with sudden anxiety. "You mean now?"

Philippe paused in the doorway, his body half concealed by the bookcase. "Why not?"

With a broad grin on his youthful face, Philippe slipped through the exit, and a moment later, D'Artagnan heard him pounding on Anne's secret door.

"Philippe!" D'Artagnan hissed, rushing into the corridor to stop him. "What if someone is in there with her? The passages would be exposed!"

He looked over his shoulder at his father. "I asked yesterday, and she said that no one ever comes into her chamber without being invited."

"That does not change the fact that her attendant could be in there, or one of the chamber maids –"

The door opened, and light flooded into the corridor from the queen mother's bedchamber. Backlit from the window behind her, she formed a silhouette in the doorway as she observed the son who stood before her. "Philippe," she scolded, gently. "I told you yesterday that it is not necessary for you to use the passages when you want to visit with me. You may –" She spotted the other man over Philippe's shoulder and stopped. "D'Artagnan?"

"Are you alone?" he asked, worriedly, still concerned that the passages might be exposed.

"Yes. I was just reading by the window."

Philippe stepped back to allow room for his father to move toward her. "He has something he wants to ask, don't you?" he prodded.

"Well," he began, hesitating in the shadows. A moment later, he felt Philippe's hands on his back, pushing him forward. "Philippe!" he protested, reaching around to swat the hands away. "Stop pushing!"

Philippe pulled his hands back, his expression a picture of innocence. "It looked like you needed some help."

"I do not need that kind of help!"

Anne watched the exchange with an amused smile, thinking it a very pleasant interaction between father and son. "Perhaps you should just say it, D'Artagnan," she suggested.

He took a step forward, this time on his own. "Well," he began again. "Well . . . ."

"Perhaps you would be more comfortable if I left you alone," Philippe offered. With a wide grin, he backed away, then made his way back down the corridor to his room.

"What is he up to?" Anne asked, greatly amused.

D'Artagnan turned back to face her, but she was quick to notice that his expression had become serious. "Our son saw us in the garden last night."

Her smile faded, replaced by instant concern. "If he saw us, then anyone could have seen us."

"Yes. He is very worried that if we continue to meet like that, we will one day be discovered. You know what that means. Our relationship would be dragged into the public, and people may wonder how long it went on. Some may even raise questions about the king's paternity."

She lowered her gaze, her expression one of disappointment that it might be necessary to revert back to their forced distance, where they might never again share a private moment together. "Yes, you are right," she said, softly. Nodding her acceptance, she added, "So, we must return to the way things were between us."

Recognizing her sorrow, he stepped closer to her and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Not necessarily. He has come up with a plan to unite us, and is most eager than I explain it to you."

She looked up again, her eyes searching his. "A plan? What kind of plan?"

He paused, struggling with the words to explain Philippe's plan. He had never proposed marriage to a woman before, and found it to be more difficult than he had imagined. The circumstances were too complicated for a simple _Will you marry me?_

Anne offered a slight smile in response to his difficulty in relating the plan. "I do not believe I have ever seen you so at a loss for words before!"

"This is not easy to explain," he admitted. "Philippe has expressed a desire that you and I should be married, and he has already spoken with Aramis about it."

He saw her swallow hard, and her eyes seemed larger than usual. Finding her voice again, she asked, "How – how could it be managed?"

He gestured toward the bookcase-door behind him. "He has suggested that I move into the room across the passage, where we would have access to one another without risk of being spotted by others."

Realization dawned. "That is why he was questioning me about that room!" she said, then explained, "He came to my room yesterday for a visit, and he must have just discovered it because he kept asking questions about it."

"Yes. I should not be surprised that he would be trying to resolve our problems. He questioned me about them back at the village, but I instructed him not to involve himself; that things could not be changed. Now, he has come up with a plan that seems very simple." He paused to see if she would offer comment. When she did not, he inquired curiously, "What are your feelings about this?"

"I was going to ask you the same thing," she replied, reluctant to take the initiative.

He hesitated. He had placed the question squarely in her lap, and she had promptly handed it back to him. "Well, it will not be a conventional marriage in that it must be kept secret, so there is still some risk involved, but provided there are no flaws to his plan, I think it might work. If you are willing to take the chance, that is."

"How dangerous would it be?" she asked.

"There are a few problems that we will need to discuss, but from what I've seen and heard initially, it will be simply a matter of watching what we say and how we act in public. No different than what we are doing now."

She glanced over her shoulder as if to verify that her attendant had not entered, even though she never entered the room without knocking and waiting for a response. "After all this time, could the answer really be so simple?"

He reached out and took her hand. "Come, I will show you the room."

She followed him through the bookcase-door and into the center of the room. For several moments, she stood quietly looking at the room, but her heart was beating rapidly with anticipation of spending the rest of her life with the man she loved. Not openly as she would have preferred, but after twenty years consisting of no more than longing glances and stolen looks through her window, she would gladly accept such an offer.

"It is much larger than my old room, which Philippe insists will remain my office, to keep my private and public accommodations separate. He has even been thinking how he wants me to furnish it!" He grasped her hands and looked into her face, gently combing back an errant lock of her hair with his fingers. "Anne, you know my feelings for you. All these years, I have loved no one but you. If you will have me, I would very much like to marry you."

Always poised and very refined in her movements and actions, for once in her life the queen mother threw dignity to the wind. "Oh, D'Artagnan! Yes!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms around his neck for an enthusiastic embrace, feeling like they were young lovers again. "Yes, I will have you! I never thought – I never imagined that something like this could ever happen for us!"

"Nor did I, but I underestimated our son's determination to make us a family." He drew back and cradled her face in his hands. "I wish it could be openly, but I am grateful for whatever God permits us to enjoy."

He pulled her into his arms for a kiss, then drew back again.

"Come, we must tell Philippe."

Clasping hands, the couple made their way back through the passage after securely closing the bookcase door behind them, and emerged into Philippe's chamber. He had been waiting for them, eagerly anticipating a positive response, and knew immediately that he would not be disappointed. His mother's shining face and the smiles on the faces of both his parents provided the answer before they even spoke.

D'Artagnan closed the portrait behind him, then gestured for all of them to be seated at the small table so that they might discuss their decision and its ramifications.

"As you might have guessed, Philippe, your mother was agreeable. However, I do have some concerns, and they must be resolved before we proceed any farther. First, how would we announce my move from the old chamber to the new one? I have lived there for so long that people would wonder at the sudden change."

"That is simple," Anne replied promptly. "The king will make a formal announcement that due to your many years of dedication and service to him and to the country, he is offering you the gift of accommodations more suited to your status. You are captain of the Musketeers. Recognition of your service is long overdue."

"Excellent idea, Mother!" Philippe approved.

"Where could a marriage between us take place?" she asked. "Obviously, we cannot use the palace chapel, nor could we use any of the area cathedrals."

D'Artagnan indicated the room in which they were now sitting. "We could be married in a brief ceremony right here, with only Philippe and my friends in attendance," he suggested.

"I've a better idea," Philippe said. "I know Mother would prefer to be married in a chapel, and there is a chapel at Porthos's estate. We can use that."

D'Artagnan could not help but smile. "It appears you have been thinking of this for some time. However, there is a problem with that. There is the matter of your mother's reclusive nature that must be addressed. She has not been seen outside the palace grounds in many years, and even here she ventures from her apartments only on occasion to walk to the chapel or to the dining hall."

"Or a midnight stroll in the garden with her lover!" Philippe teased.

Anne's cheeks colored slightly, but the only indication that D'Artagnan had heard was a slight pause before continuing. "For her to leave the palace would cause much speculation."

"Then we must think of a reason for her to leave the palace grounds," Philippe insisted. "One that everyone would accept without question."

She was shaking her head, totally at a loss for any reason she would have for leaving the grounds. "I can think of nothing. I have everything I need right here."

"You were not always a recluse," D'Artagnan pondered. "In the early days, before the king died, you occasionally would go to stay at one of the other royal estates."

"To get away from Louis," she reminded him. "He and I were not good friends, nor did we have a good marriage. Since his death, I have had no reason to use any of the other accommodations."

They were silent for several moments, then D'Artagnan suggest, "Perhaps your son, worried about your reclusiveness, could propose a change of scenery to you one day; I would suggest at the dining table where servants would be sure to overhear. Naturally, you would object, but he would persist until you agreed. With suitable reluctance, of course."

Philippe sat up straighter with enthusiasm. "Yes! That would work! We could rehearse what we would say to make it more believable. One thing that Aramis brought up that I am uncertain how to handle would be if one of the men came looking for you in an emergency situation during the night, if you were . . . " His voice trailed and he felt his cheeks growing warm. "If you weren't there."

D'Artagnan smiled with amusement at his son's embarrassment. "That would only happen in the event of an extreme emergency, and it would be a simple matter to leave the doors between our rooms cracked open. They are right across the corridor from one another, and I should be able to hear if someone came looking for me."

They looked at one another for several moments, then Philippe asked, "Is there anything else to discuss?"

"My attendant," Anne said. "Obviously, she cannot go with us to the estate and she will wonder why."

"Give her a vacation," Philippe suggested.

"It is not as simple as that."

"Why not?"

"She has been at my side for many years. She would wonder about it if I suddenly ordered her to take some time away from me."

"She may be a major obstacle," D'Artagnan said.

"Perhaps not," Philippe said, refusing to concede defeat. "She seems very loyal to you, Mother. Can she be trusted if we take her into our confidence?"

D'Artagnan was shaking his head, negatively. "Too many people know already. We cannot keep inviting others to share our secrets, no matter how loyal we think they are."

"Your father is right, Philippe," Anne agreed. "It is too dangerous. She is very loyal, and I do believe she would never intentionally betray us, but it is too easy for an accidental slip of the tongue."

"What can we do, then? We cannot just give up on this! Does she have any relatives that she could visit?"

After another pause, Anne said, "She has a sister in Rouen that she has not seen in many years, but convincing her to go might be difficult."

"Then I will insist," Philippe said. "After all her years of dedicated service to my mother, I believe she is deserving of a short vacation. I am getting very good at persuasion."

Anne exchanged a knowing glance with D'Artagnan, both of them smiling. "That you are," D'Artagnan agreed. Rising from his chair, he took Anne's hand to assist her to her feet. "Come, I will walk you back to you chamber."

With a look in Philippe's direction that plainly said they wanted to be alone for a few minutes, they slipped behind the portrait door and made their way back to the queen mother's chamber. He did not enter her room, but stood in the doorway.

"There is one last thing that I wanted to discuss, but I wanted to do so privately," he said. "Regarding your attendant, there is the possibility that she might discover my presence in your chamber. She might overhear us talking or even walk in on us."

"No, she would never enter my chamber with waiting for me to admit her. The door leading from my bedchamber to my parlor is solid, and I do not think she would hear us talking even if she were standing right outside it, which is unlikely, since she respects my privacy. As a safeguard, though, I can always lock my door."

He smiled, pleased. "Everything seems to be coming together. How long will it take you to be ready?"

"For the wedding? Since it will not be a large formal wedding, I will not require much time to prepare. My dressmakers are working on a new gown that should be ready in a week or so, so I will wear that. I can probably be ready before the chapel is!"

He drew her into his arms. "Soon, after all these years of hopelessness, you and I will be husband and wife."


	32. Chapter Thirty Two

Chapter Thirty Two

Anne sat quietly before the mirror at the dressing table while behind her Angelina was working diligently over her long dark hair, styling it into a fashion suitable for a bride.

_Bride._

She had imagined this day for so long that it was difficult to accept that it had actually come true, that within the hour she would be D'Artagnan's wife. All those long, lonely years since the birth of her twin sons, she had longed for what had always eluded her: a happy, fulfilling marriage with the man she loved. Would she soon wake up and realize that it had been nothing more than a dream?

She blinked herself out of her reverie, focusing on the reflection in the mirror of the young woman who continued to struggle with her hair. Her expression was one of intense concentration, apparently determined to do a good job for the queen mother. No, this was real. Without the help of her usual attendants, who must remain ignorant of the changes that were occurring in their mistress's life, she was preparing for her wedding, while in another wing of Porthos's mansion, D'Artagnan was preparing to meet her at the alter.

A smile crept to Anne's lips. The past three weeks since the proposal had been hectic and rushed as preparations were made in secret. Angelina had told her that the chapel in which the wedding would take place had been scrubbed from top to bottom by Porthos's servants, and when the job was complete they had been dismissed for what he had referred to as some needed time off in appreciation for their loyalty during the rough time he had endured following the death of his wife. This was to guard the security and the privacy of the wedding. None of them questioned his motives; they were happy to be granted the time away from their chores for a few days.

Getting away from the palace without raising eyebrows was a bit more of a challenge, but all the pieces seemed to fall into place with surprising ease. During lunch two days ago, she and Philippe had engaged in the scripted conversation in front of the palace servants. As a dutiful son, he had expressed his concern for her reclusive nature, pointing out the fact that she had not left the palace in as long as he could remember. She had offered her excuses, and when the king suggested that she should take a brief holiday away from the palace, she had rejected the idea, the insisting that she had everything she needed at the palace. The conversation was revisited at supper, with him applying enough pressure for her to finally agree. It had been a convincing performance by both of them, and no one was suspicious when her carriage was brought to the door early this morning with Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and D'Artagnan in escort.

Lieutenant Andre had seemed a bit puzzled by the lack of a larger escort, since the king had ridden with her in the carriage on the pretence of getting her settled, but the trip was explained as spur of the moment. Since they had not publicly revealed the day on which she would be leaving, there should be minimal danger in getting her to her destination. A large escort would simply call attention to their journey. In the pre-dawn hour, they had boarded a plain black coach, and had slipped unnoticed into the countryside.

And now, she was only minutes away from being united forever with the man she loved.

Glancing into the mirror, Angelina noticed the smile that continued to play around the corner's of the queen mother's mouth, and she offered a tentative smile of her own, greatly intimidated by the older woman's prestige. "You look very happy, my lady."

"You have no idea how long I have waited for this day," Anne replied.

"I think it is wonderful. You and the captain deserve to find happiness after all the sacrifices you have made throughout your lives. I am not sure I could have been so brave in the same situation."

Anne gazed for a long moment at the other woman's reflection in the mirror, observing her as she worked. She appeared to be as skilled in hairdressing as she was reputed to be at preparing fine meals, for her hands were working with ease with none of the fumbling of someone who was performing an infrequent task. "You are very good at this," she commented.

"I have two sisters," she explained. "We always fixed each other's hair. I must say, though, there have been so many changes in my life the past few weeks I hardly know what has happened!"

They fell silent for a few moments, then Anne asked, curiously, "How did you find out? About Philippe, and about D'Artagnan and me. Did they tell you?"

"No. I was the cook while they were at the village, so I was in and out of the house a lot. I overheard many of their discussions, about training Philippe to take his brothers place on the throne, and acquiring new clothes for him that were like those of the king. I was not deliberately eavesdropping, but I heard enough to figure out what had happened, especially after I heard Philippe call the captain 'father'. I was surprised, but I never told anyone what I had heard. And I started coming alone to the house, leaving my sisters at home so they would not overhear as well."

"I appreciate your discretion." Anne continued to watch the younger woman in the mirror, wondering what thoughts lurked behind those opaque eyes. Her hands were clearly skilled, but there was a definite nervousness to her actions, and the queen mother knew that she was in awe of her. "As much as I love D'Artagnan, I am not proud of the betrayal to my husband and my king. You must think me a horrid person."

Angelina's eyes snapped up to gaze at the reflection of the other woman in the mirror. "On the contrary, my lady. I am not one to judge, for we have all done things of which we are not proud. I think you must have been very unhappy; that you were forced into a marriage with a man you did not love, and that your heart always belonged to someone else."

"All of that is true," Anne admitted. She knew she should not be discussing such personal things with a servant, but this was the first woman she could be truly open and honest with, a woman who already knew her deepest secrets, a woman she could confide in. "Still, what I did was more than just adultery. I have loved him for so long, but our love was forbidden. What we did was treason. I betrayed the king and the country, and I allowed him to think that another man's child was his. That was a difficult burden to bear."

"Is that why you became a recluse?" Angelina asked without thinking. "Penance for your sins?" Catching a glance from the queen mother, she quickly averted her eyes, realizing that she had overstepped her bounds. "Forgive me, my lady. I am just a servant, and should not have asked such a personal question."

"From what I hear, you are not just a servant," Anne smiled to show her that she was not offended. "My son tells me that you are soon to be a lady yourself."

Color rose in Angelina's cheeks. "Porthos has asked me to marry him, but . . . I am having doubts that a marriage between us would work."

"Why not? D'Artagnan tells me that Porthos loves you very much."

"I love him with all my heart, but I fear I am not worthy of him. Ever since coming here, I have watched him with his friends, all of them of high standing and reputation, and I am reminded that I come from a different place." Her eyes brimmed with tears. "I am a mere peasant girl, raised in a large family of farmers. I never had fine things. I do not even know how to read. He was a famous Musketeer, and was married to a baroness. I know nothing of running a household this size. All I know is how to serve."

Anne turned around in her chair and grasped the young woman by the hand. "Many people with humble beginnings have risen to great heights. My own"D'Artagnan is a good example. And he told me that he has never seen Porthos as happy as he is with you. Your humble beginnings are of no consequence to him; therefore they should not be to you either. Your past is what shaped you into the woman you are today, and you must be a wonderful young woman to have captured the heart of that feisty old codger."

Angelina bowed her head, reminded of her age. "That is another thing, my lady. He is much older than I am. What if he grows tired of me and wants someone more his own age to talk to?"

"He has three best friends to talk to. Angelina – may I call you that?"

Angelina looked up, startled. "Of course, my lady."

"If there is one thing I have learned from my experience, it is that we must never take for granted the love that exists for all of us. For most people, true love only comes once in a lifetime. A few others are blessed enough to find love again, and if you and Porthos love each other, then nothing else should matter. I lost so many years to an unhappy marriage and then to my penance. Yes, to answer your question, that is why I secluded myself away from the public. Yet it was more than that. Every time I saw D'Artagnan, I felt as if my heart would break from the longing. Even after my husband had passed away, the difference in our social status forbade us from enjoying the life we would have liked."

"And now your son has found a way for you to be together."

"I am grateful to him for that, yet it is not the way I would have preferred. My point is, Angelina, that you have no such restrictions. If a life with Porthos is what you truly want, then you must not lose this chance at happiness. You have an opportunity to share your life openly with the man you love. It may not be perfect, but if the love is there then you must seize it, and thank God every day for offering it to you."

"It will not be easy," Angelina said, worriedly. "The other servants will resent me for rising above them in rank."

"Few things that are worthwhile are easy. But they are worth the struggle, and you will be stronger for it. If the servants become a problem, simply dismiss them and find new ones who will treat you with respect. Trust me; Porthos will not allow them to treat you with insolence. But I believe that their loyalty to him with encourage them to accept you."

Angelina smiled, and it was clear to see that some of the load had been lifted from her heart. "Thank you, my lady." The queen mother turned to face the mirror again, and Angelina laid down the brush and picked up a long strand of pearls, which she began to weave into Anne's hair. "You have such beautiful hair, my lady. You are going to be a beautiful bride."

"You have done a lovely job. Thank you, Angelina."

When the strand of pearls was in place, Angelina stood back. "You are ready."

Anne felt her heart step up a notch, and she placed her hand over her bosom in an attempt to calm it. "Oh, my! I am so nervous!"

"Stand up, and I will make sure you are not wrinkled."

Anne rose off the small stool on which she had sat. Her skirt had been carefully arranged to avoid putting wrinkles in it, but occasionally a wrinkle or two would materialize. Angeline circled her, straightening the light gray skirt and smoothing it down her hand.

"You look perfect." She picked up the bouquet of flowers that she had picked from the garden, and placed it in the bride's hands. "Wait here and I will tell the others."

The two women exchanged a smile, then Angelina opened the door and went down the long corridor to inform the men that the bride was ready.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Are you about ready?" Athos asked as he stepped unannounced through the open door of the room in which D'Artagnan was getting ready.

His back to the door, the captain recoiled at the abruptness of his friend's voice and dropped his dress sword onto the floor with a clatter that startled them both.

Athos could not contain his laughter at the startled expression on D'Artagnan's face. "My, you are jumpy today!" he teased.

"I feel like a frightened novice going into battle for the first time," he confessed as he bent to retrieve the fallen sword. It was inserted into the sheath, and the baldric was draped over his right shoulder so that the polished weapon hung against his left hip. "I have never been married before!"

Athos nodded his understanding. "I had always wondered about that, why you never found a good woman and settled down. I had no idea of the truth behind why you remained a bachelor all these years."

"For more than twenty years, I have dreamed of marrying Anne, of taking her away from Paris where we might live our lives together, but always we were tied to this place by our son. We could not leave him. And now that I have within my grasp the chance to take her as my wife, I am so nervous that I can barely keep a thought in my head or accomplish even the simplest of tasks. I nicked myself three times while shaving this morning," he added, pressing his fingertip gingerly to a spot on his chin that had only just stopped bleeding moments earlier.

"I was the same way before my wedding," Athos confessed. "So awkward and clumsy."

"Were you?" D'Artagnan asked, encouraged.

"When a man takes a wife, he is stepping into unknown territory, and taking on responsibilities that he never had before. But I knew I had found the right woman for me, and that I would never regret it. However, your situation is a bit more complicated than mine."

D'Artagnan turned to face the mirror and fumbled with his lacy white cravat. "This is the happiest day of my life, yet also the most frightening. Your analogy of unknown territory is a good one. This is a totally new experience for me. When I return to the palace, I will be a married man who must room separate from my wife."

"That is not unusual," Athos pointed out as he stepped forward to help his friend with the cravat. D'Artagnan lowered his hands, content to allow him full control over the task. "Many married couples occupy separate chambers, especially in the noble classes. The husband goes to the wife whenever he wants her, and but it makes it more convenient for him to keep a mistress or two if the wife if unaware of his comings and goings."

"Well, that will not be the case with me. I have no desire to share my time with a mistress, nor am I a member of the noble classes. I am but a humble Musketeer who is, at this moment, terrified of finally, after all this time, achieving the one thing I have wanted above everything else."

"I must admit to being surprised by the room that you will be moving into. I have seen the room before, but I don't think any of us knew that it opened into the secret corridor."

"No one was more surprised than I!"

"That in itself will be a new experience, for you have lived in the old room for many years. Philippe told me the other Musketeers were pleased with the announcement that your service to the king was finally being rewarded. Everyone believes it was a long time in coming."

"I never needed anything better than that," D'Artagnan replied, modestly. "The truth is, being so near my son was reward enough, even though Louis was unaware of it. I haven't many belongings, and the simplicity of the other room suited me."

"Your old furniture will be lost in that big room!"

"Philippe is acquiring all new furniture for the room, but he will not tell me much about it, only that it will be ready when I return to the palace. I am quite unaccustomed to so much attention."

Athos winked, teasingly. "I am sure you will find it to your liking."

When he finished with the cravat, D'Artagnan reached for the tunic of his uniform. For the first time, Athos realized that his friend intended to wear the old black uniform instead of the new blue dress uniform. "You decided to wear the old uniform?"

"Anne has told me several times that she prefers the old uniforms to the new ones, so I thought it would please her." He gestured toward his old friend. "And I see that you are wearing your old uniform, as well."

Athos smiled as he glanced down at the long black tunic with the gold fleur-de-lis on the chest and the back. "I think we all prefer the old ones. Besides, I retired before the uniforms changed color, so it is all I have." He watched as D'Artagnan put on the tunic and arranged it so that the long fabric hung evenly on all sides.

Both were silent for a few moments, than Athos commented, "It seems quite fateful, doesn't it? First, Philippe assumes the throne with more ease than any of us thought possible, and then while exploring the passages he finds a room strategically located beside that of the queen mother, a room which solves many of the problems that kept the two of you apart all these years. And Porthos has a chapel on his estate so that you can be married in secret. It all seems as though it has the approval of a higher power than any of us."

"Indeed," D'Artagnan agreed. "Perhaps the wrongs of my old sin are being righted. My grandest dreams would have involved loving her and marrying her openly, but since that can never be, this is the next best thing."

"Well, the reason I came here was to inform you that the queen mother is ready. Aramis and Porthos are in the chapel. Angelina is on her way there now, and Philippe is ready to escort his mother to the service. Everyone seems to be ready except you."

D'Artagnan turned to face the mirror again to peruse his appearance once last time. His hands were a bit unsteady as his deft fingers made a few minor adjustments, and inside he was all butterflies and nerves. "All right," he announced. "I am ready."

Athos swatted him affectionately on the upper arm with his open hand, then the two men made their way down the stairs to the rear entrance, and walked through the formal gardens toward the chapel.

It was a perfect day for a wedding. The sun was shining brightly, but the weather had graced them with a cool day with no wind to disturb carefully styled hair and clothing. The lawn had been carefully manicured, and the flowers were in full bloom along the paths.

When they stepped out of the bright sunlight into the darker interior of the chapel, the two men paused briefly to allow their eyes to adjust to the lower light. Candles burned in gold candelabras on either side of the altar, where Aramis stood waiting with an open Bible in his hand. He was dressed in his floor length cassock, and his hair was carefully brushed for the occasion. Beside him, Porthos stood waiting in his black Musketeers uniform. Like Aramis, he was carefully shaved and his long, rather wild hair was brushed, and his mustache suitably trimmed. A large bouquet of red roses stood on a marble pedestal beside the altar.

Athos walked with D'Artagnan proceeded down the aisle to await the arrival of the queen mother. Angelina was already waiting on the other side of the pulpit, facing Porthos. No one failed to notice the smiles that passed between the two of them, or the sly wink that Porthos gave her.

"I do believe we will see another wedding soon!" Athos whispered in D'Artagnan's ear.

"I was beginning to think you had backed out," Porthos teased as they came to a halt beside him.

Aramis looked up from his Bible, and bowed slightly at the waist. The others turned to look.

The queen mother stood regally just inside the doorway. Her posture was erect and dignified, her arm linked with that of her son, who had placed his other hand over hers in a gesture of great affection. In her other hand was the bouquet of white flowers that Angelina had picked for her and bound with a white ribbon. Directing her attention toward the dais, her eyes met those of her betrothed from across the length of the small private chapel.

D'Artagnan felt his breath catch in his chest, and his heart swelled with adoration. She was simply the most beautiful woman he had ever beheld, and her smile alone was enough to reassure him that legitimizing their relationship was the right thing to do. "There is nothing on this earth that could make me back out of this wedding," he whispered to Porthos, never taking his eyes off the woman who, within minutes, would be his wife.

Seeing that they had the attention of the others, Anne and Philippe made their way down the center of the chapel toward the pulpit, where Anne's hand was transferred to D'Artagnan.

Taking her hand in his, he smiled at her warmly, and they turned to face the priest. At Aramis's instruction, the pair knelt down on the kneeling bench, and the wedding ceremony commenced.

D'Artagnan and Anne followed the priest's instructions and repeated the wedding vows that Aramis recited for them. When it was over, they stood up and sealed their vows with a kiss.

As they broke the kiss, D'Artagnan turned to shake hands with his friends, and was surprised to discover that Athos and Porthos were gone, having slipped quietly outside while he was preoccupied. Aramis still stood before them, smiling. With his hand, he gestured toward the door, urging them to go outside.

Linking Anne's arm with his, he guided her toward the door, and as they stepped through it, he discovered that Athos and Porthos were standing at formal attention, one on each side of it, their sword tips touching above their heads to form the honorary bridal arch.

In a proper military wedding, an entire squad of Musketeers would be lined up shoulder to shoulder on each side of the walkway, providing the customary arch for the newlywed couple to walk beneath, but in lieu of the squad, his good friends were offering him their tribute.

Moved beyond words, D'Artagnan escorted his wife beneath the arch of swords, then turned back to face the chapel. Aramis and Philippe stood smiling in the doorway as Athos and Porthos returned their swords to their scabbards. A moment later, everyone was shaking hands and kissing the bride on the cheek.

"Come back up to the parlor," Angelina urged. "I made some pastries to celebrate, and Porthos has brought out his best wine for the occasion."

Anne grasped the younger woman by the hand. "You are so thoughtful. But when did you find the time? You have been busy with me most of the morning!"

Porthos draped an arm over the shoulders of his intended. "She spent nearly the entire night in the kitchen baking."

"Then we mustn't let them go to waste!" Philippe exclaimed. "Mother, you are going to love her pastries. No one can cook like Angelina!"

As a group, the men and women returned to the house and gathered in the parlor, where Angelina served her pastries and Porthos's best wine.

With a longing gaze at the wine bottle as Angelina poured it into the waiting goblets, he said, "As much as I would like to, I no longer partake. The effect it was having on me was less pleasant than the thought of no longer drinking it, so I would appreciate it if everyone would enjoy it on my behalf, and then when it is gone, the temptation will also be removed, as it is my last bottle. I will not be replenishing my stock."

Aramis slapped his old friend affectionately on the shoulder, giving it a meaningful squeeze. "I am humbled by your sacrifice, Porthos. You are truly an inspiration."

Angelina watched anxiously as the queen mother selected a pastry from the platter and sampled it. "Are they to your liking, my lady?" she asked, hopefully.

"Simply the best I have ever tasted," Anne replied. "Philippe was right; you do have a talent for creating culinary wonders."

The young cook beamed with pleasure. "He said that?"

"I did indeed," Philippe said. "The chef at the palace is truly a wonder to behold, but his masterpieces pale in comparison to yours."

She blushed with delight. "You are too kind, your majesty."

"I only speak the truth. I envy Porthos, who gets to indulge in your creations every day!"

Porthos patted his stomach. "And it is beginning to show, I fear!"

Everyone laughed, happily.

Angelina put away the wine bottle, and at Anne's urging, joined her guests. It felt very foreign to sit among men and women of such high rank instead of simply serving them and moving back out of the way, but Porthos had assured her that they were all equals during the festivities, and that it was right and proper that she should join them. She felt very self-conscious as she sat down in a chair near Porthos.

"I believe this is the happiest day of my life," Philippe said. "We are all here together as a family." He looked at his father's best friends and added, "And I include all of you in my family."

D'Artagnan raised his goblet. "To family."

"To family!" they chimed, then drank their toast.

"So tell me," Porthos said as he placed his goblet of cider on a side table. "How did you manage to get away from the palace without an entourage of servants?"

"It was not that difficult, actually," Philippe explained. "I merely informed them that the queen mother would be staying with friends for a few days, and that the house she would be staying at was fully staffed." He glanced around at those in attendance with an amused smile. "Of course, that was a lie, since all of the servants have been temporarily sent away, but they need not know the facts. As for the entourage of Musketeers, I am guarded by the four finest Musketeers in history, and everyone knows that."

"I hated lying to Lieutenant Andre, though," D'Artagnan said, regretfully. "He has stood by us steadfastly since the exchange. I told him that the queen mother was being taken to one of the royal retreats, and that he is to be in charge while I am away. I think it satisfied him."

"The most difficult part was convincing my attendant, Madeleine, to visit her sister for a few days. We allowed her to think that it was the king's idea, that he was just beginning to understand the importance of family, and that it was his wish that she should take a brief holiday to visit the only relative she has left."

"Even then, she was worried about leaving Mother without her assistance during that time," Philippe added. "She is very devoted."

"I assured her that it would be all right, that I would manage without her, and that we would see each other in a week. After being reassured, she was so eager to see her sister that she wept with joy when she bade farewell to me, and promised to rejoin me in a week's time to resume her duties." She glanced fondly at her son. "And she believes the king is the most kind and generous ruler in all of Europe!"

"To the king!" Porthos said, raising his cider again.

"To the king!" they repeated.

As Athos lowered his goblet again, he asked, curiously, "Philippe, have you heard anything of your brother's valet, Francois? It has been more than four weeks now since he broke his leg the day of the hunt, but you have mentioned nothing of him returning to the palace."

"I send someone to LaCroix's estate to check on him a couple of times a week to see if there is anything he needs," Philippe replied. "Curiously, his broken leg seems to be healing very slowly."

Athos frowned, a puzzled expression on his face. "Even so, he should have been well enough to return to the palace by now. Have you sent your physician to have a look at him?"

"Yes. He can provide no explanation of why Francois is recovering so slowly, and claims that outwardly the leg appears to be quite healthy. He has felt the break and it seems to be knitting properly, but says there may be some imperfection in the bone that is causing this problem. There has been some progress, and he is moving about with crutches, but he insists that he can only remain up for a few minutes at a time before the leg causes him so much pain that he must return to his bed. He fears the trip to the palace would cause unbearable pain. We will have to wait a while longer to see how it progresses."

"That is most curious, but I suppose different people heal in different ways."

"That is what the doctor assures me. This does not automatically preclude his ability to return to the service of the king. LaCroix is very upset," Philippe added with a smile. "I think he is afraid the king will blame him for the slow healing. I occasionally receive a message from him assuring me that Francois is receiving the most attentive care possible by his family and servants."

"The delay is very beneficial," D'Artagnan said. "Certain physical characteristics between you and Louis will fade in his mind as time goes by, and become less noticeable. I must say, this is a most remarkable turn of events, isn't it?"

"It certainly works on our behalf," Aramis agreed.

"As if it was fate," Anne added. "I do feel sorry for poor Francois, though. He has always been so devoted to the king, and must be suffering terribly."

"Perhaps I should stop and visit him while I am so near," Philippe mused.

"I would discourage that," D'Artagnan said. "You are not supposed to be in this area, remember. We told your staff that you were going to one of the royal retreats, and there are none in this location. Better that you continue to allow your staff to request updates on his condition."

Philippe sighed. "You are right, of course. After four weeks, I should have thought this through properly."

"You have a kind heart, Philippe," Athos said approvingly, a statement he had made frequently, but it pleased him to know that the young man was so caring of others. "It is natural that it should cross your mind to check up on him while you are so near. But as your father said, you are not supposed to be in this area."

"Aramis, what about the Jesuits?" D'Artagnan asked, curiously. "What are their intentions toward the king now that 'Louis' has been showing mercy to the people?"

"They have noticed the changes that Philippe has made so far, and are quite pleased with it. They are watching with a bit of skepticism, but they are settling down to see if he continues to make progress."

"So I am out of danger?" Philippe asked, hopefully.

"From the Jesuits, yes," Aramis explained. "There are still potential assassins out there, people who were wronged by Louis and seek revenge, and possibly political assassins from other countries, so you must continue to be cautious."

"Please, may we talk of something else?" Anne asked, distressed by the reminder that her son was in constant danger whenever he stepped outside the palace.

Philippe bent to kiss her cheek. "Do not worry, Mother. I will be careful, and the Musketeers will protect me. And now, I would like to raise one last toast: To my mother and my father. May they enjoy many years of happiness."

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

They celebrated well into the evening, emptying the last bottle of Porthos's wine and eating the fine meal that Angelina prepared for them. The moon had risen over the landscape when Anne, unaccustomed to lengthy festivities, rose from her chair. "I will retire now."

The men instantly stood up, and each of them bade her goodnight.

They watched as she walked gracefully from the room, then Athos turned to D'Artagnan and said, "You are a lucky man, my friend. She is a beautiful bride."

"That she is. Thank you, all of you, for everything you have done to make this possible for us. I had despaired of ever getting together with her."

"It is your son you should thank," Aramis reminded him. "None of this would have been possible without him. I must admit to being more than a bit skeptical when he first revealed his plan to me. I kept looking for flaws that apparently were not there."

"As did I," D'Artagnan agreed.

The clock chimed ten o'clock, drawing their attention to the time.

"I think we should be getting Philippe back to the palace," Athos said.

"I worry about you traveling after dark," D'Artagnan said. "There may be highwaymen about."

"Do not fear," Aramis said. "Sometimes the night provides the best cover. We will be cutting across country and traveling in the shadows, and as you said earlier, D'Artagnan, no one knows he is in this area. Anyone seeking to do harm to the king will be looking elsewhere."

D'Artagnan drew his son into his arms for an embrace, slapping him heartily on the back. "I cannot thank you enough for this, Philippe. I have always thought that a union between your mother and me was permanently out of our grasp. You have achieved things that I never thought possible."

"It was my pleasure, Father."

D'Artagnan walked them to the door, and watched as Athos, Aramis, and Philippe went to the paddock to get their horses. A few minutes later, they were riding into the darkness toward Paris.

Closing the door, he returned to the parlor, where Porthos and Angelina waited. Placing his arm around her, Porthos said, "I think it is time that Angelina and I retired as well. Goodnight, D'Artagnan. Will we see you at breakfast?" he added with a teasing smile.

"Maybe," D'Artagnan replied with a sly smile.

With a hearty laugh, Porthos took one of the candles, and he and Angelina climbed the steps, turning to the right to go to their room in the east wing of the mansion.

Blowing out the remaining candles except one, D'Artagnan followed his friend up the steps, then turned toward the west wing and walked down the long corridor to the room he and Anne had been given.

He paused nervously outside the bedroom door. His stomach was fluttering with butterflies, and his heart was beating faster than it had when he had fumbled his way into his first intimate relationship with the more experienced Constance so many years ago. As he reached for the door knob, he discovered that his hands were sweating. Calming himself, he rubbed them against his breeches to dry them, then grasped the knob and opened the door.

Dressed in a floor length nightgown and robe, Anne was standing at the window gazing out into the night, and she turned to face him when she heard him enter. For several moments, all he could do was stand there and gaze at her, so beautiful and regal in the muted light from the single candle she had lit. Her long thick hair tumbled loosely about her shoulders, falling to her waist. The faint scent of her soft perfume reached his nostrils, and he knew that she had prepared herself for him, for the night they would share together.

She watched silently as he closed the door behind him and placed his candle on the small table beside it. He leaned against the door for a moment, as if reluctant to approach her, but in reality, he was so nervous that he was having trouble coaxing his legs to move.

"I saw riders leaving," she said softly, breaking the silence.

"Yes. Athos and Aramis are escorting Philippe back to the palace. Porthos and Angelina have retired to the east wing. I dare say, they will keep one another entertained throughout the night," he added in an attempt at humor that seemed to fall flat.

"It feels strange," she admitted. "I have never, in my entire life, been inside a house with so few people before. Always, there have been servants, advisors and guards."

Gaining control over his legs again, he moved closer to her and drew her into his arms. He was unprepared for the surprise of discovering that she was shivering uncontrollably.

"You're trembling," he said in alarm, drawing back to search her face for indications that she had taken a chill. He pressed his hand to her forehead in concern. "Are you ill?"

"No, I'm all right. It's just that . . . It's been a long time since . . . . since . . . " Her voice trailed, and she looked away.

He smiled, comprehending the source of her anxiety. Leaning forward, he kissed her forehead and gently stroked her cheek with the back of his curled fingers. "For me also," he confessed.

She misinterpreted his meaning, and she reached for the strings that tied the neck of her robe beneath her chin, willing to give herself to him, even though she was not yet mentally prepared, for it was the duty of a wife to do her husband's bidding.

He grasped her hand, stopping her. "No. I will not rush you," he told her. "We will wait until you are ready."

She looked up, her eyes seeking his. "When I am with you, I am not the queen mother," she insisted. "I am only your wife, who wants very much to please you."

"You have always pleased me, my love," he told her. "The night is young, and we will go slowly. I want to savor every moment of our lives together, beginning with tonight."

Her gaze lingered on his face, her eyes shining with love. Reaching up, she gently caressed his cheek with her fingertips, igniting a fire deep inside him. He felt his body shudder from the want of her, but he kept that fire contained. He would allow her to lead, and he would respond to her when she was ready.

"You are a wonderful husband, D'Artagnan," she said, softly. "Even now, I cannot believe that after all these years, our love has finally been sanctified and our children have been legitimized."

He took her hand in his, turned it over, and lovingly kissed her fingers. "In becoming your husband, it is I who has been blessed. And if you must know, I am nervous, too," he confessed with a smile.

A smile formed on her lips. "Truly?" she asked.

"Truly," he replied. "The last time we were together, it was spontaneous. We did not have time to think about it. We simply acted. When I was coming up the stairs a few minutes ago, my knees were so weak I was unsure that I would be able to make it the rest of the way!"

She smiled, happily, grateful that he understood.

He leaned forward to kiss her. Then, still holding her hand, he blew out each of the candles, and darkness descended on the bedchamber.

"Come," he said.

She followed willingly, but instead of leading her to the bed, he led her to the small lounge near the window overlooking the lawn.

He sat down on the cushioned seat, and encouraged her to sit down beside him. "We will sit and talk for a while," he explained.

Marveling at his patience, she sat down and leaned against him, resting her head on his chest, listening to the rhythm of his heartbeat. His arm was draped lightly around her shoulders, and for a long time, neither of them spoke, content in their closeness.

"I feel so foolish, acting like a first-time newlywed," she said at last, embarrassed by her insecurity. "We have two sons together! Why should I feel so shy?"

He chuckled softly. "I, too, feel like an insecure lad hoping desperately to impress the woman I love, and so afraid that I will fail."

"There has never been a time when you did not impress me," she told him. "I noticed you almost from the very beginning. I watched you from my window as you came and went in your daily activities. Seeing you was the highlight of my day, and I would imagine that you would ride up on your stallion to rescue me from my prison." She paused briefly, smiling at the memory. "It was the vivid imagination of a foolish young girl, but my daydreams were the only things that kept me sane. Even then, I think I was in love with you." She snuggled closer and slipped one arm behind him and draped the other across his abdomen so that she could clasp her hands together in an embrace around his waist. "Oh, you were so handsome in that black uniform! Thank you for wearing it today."

"I hoped it would please you." He rested his cheek against the top of her head. "I saw you at your window many times."

"You did?" she asked, surprised.

"Mm-hmm. You pulled at my heart like no one else could have. I thought you looked like a captive, held against your will, longing for freedom."

"A very astute observation, I am afraid, for that is exactly how I felt. At the time, I never thought that I would ever know happiness. I never wanted to marry Louis. I was forced into it by my parents, who felt that an alliance with the French Royals would be beneficial to them. They condemned me to a life of loneliness."

"Shh," he said, softly against her hair. "That is all in the past. We will look to the future."

Lifting her head from his chest, she shifted position so that her mouth found his in an eager kiss that grew in intensity until he stood up and lifted her into his arms to carry her toward the bed in a romantic act. Unfortunately, he stepped on her nightgown that draped over his arm and trailed on the floor, and the two of them fell quite ungracefully onto the bed together.

His voice came to her through the dark, "That is not how that was supposed to happen."

She laughed happily as she took him into her arms.


	33. Chapter Thirty Three

_**A/N:** Only a few more chapters to go, which will tie up some loose ends, and then it will be completed. I've truly appreciated the positive response I have received from fans of the movie. Your feedback has been wonderful_.

* * *

Chapter Thirty Three

Anne felt wonderfully happy and content as awareness slowly returned, and she snuggled deeper into the soft linens without opening her eyes, grasping those last few precious moments of peaceful oblivion before coming fully awake. Even without opening her eyes, she could tell that it was still not quite daylight, but already, the birds were beginning to tweet outside her window, preparing to greet the dawn. Soon, her assistant would come to help her dress before joining Philippe at the breakfast table. But even as the thought entered her mind, her increasing cognizance insisted that something was different this morning. It only took a few moments to realize that this was not her usual bed, and her eyes immediately came open to verify.

Through the morning twilight just before sunrise, she observed the unfamiliar chamber with a moment of disoriented surprise. It was a beautiful room, decorated by someone with great taste and skill, but it was not as large and ornate as her own chamber at the palace. Then her eyes darted quickly to the presence that was with her, and she saw that D'Artagnan was lying beside her. After sleeping alone her entire adult life, it gave her a brief start to find a man lying in bed with her, but then the events of the previous day came rushing back to her, and a smile formed on her lips as she observed her new husband in sleep.

As she watched him, it occurred to her that she had never seen him asleep before; not even that night so long ago when their twin sons had been conceived. Easing herself onto her side so that she might better see him, careful not to awaken him, she studied his features with the adoration and curiosity of a new bride.

He was lying on his side facing her, with one arm pushed beneath his pillow. His eyes were closed, rimmed with long dark lashes, and she marveled that she had never before noticed just how long they were. But of course men always had longer lashes than women, and she supposed it had been the envy of women since the dawn of time. In her eyes, he was the most handsome man alive, and, unable to resist the temptation to touch him, she reached out and caressed his cheek with the tips of her fingers.

Always a light sleeper, her feather soft touch against his skin, awakened him, and he smiled when he saw her beside him. "Good morning."

"Good morning," she responded. "Did you sleep well?"

He took her hand in his and kissed it. "I slept very well. You?"

"Yes. In spite of being in a strange bed, I never woke up all night long. And waking up beside you is a dream come true."

Releasing her hand, he pulled her toward him, and his lips found hers in a deep and loving kiss that was soft and tender at first, and then grew in intensity as the long-suppressed need rose inside them again.

"We should be getting downstairs to breakfast," she murmured as his lips made their way down her neck, tickling her with his mustache. "Porthos and Angelina will be waiting for us."

"They can wait a while longer," he replied, his voice muffled against her neck.

"Yes," she whispered as her hands entwined eagerly in his hair. "I suppose they can."

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Without her hairdresser, on whom she depended to style her hair each day, Anne struggled with her long dark tresses before the dressing table mirror for some time before finally deciding to merely pin it back from her face and allow it to cascade down her back in soft waves. She sometimes wore it that way in her private chamber, but never in the more public areas of the palace, as she had a position to maintain. However, in this place she was free to be a bit more casual, and she found that notion appealing.

Rising from the chair, she turned back and forth as she perused her reflection for several moments, smoothing down her skirt and arranging the strip of lace on the neck of her bodice. She was dressed in the most simple and unadorned gown she owned, desiring comfort above style during this private time away from the palace. Deeming herself presentable, she turned to see if her husband was ready.

He was dressed in plain breeches and his boots, but he had not yet put on his shirt, for he was shaving before the small mirror attached to the wall above the wash basin. She had never watched a man shave before, so she moved closer and observed him as he carefully applied the straight razor under his chin, carefully scraping away the stubble of whiskers.

"That looks dangerous," she said after several moments. "And you make funny faces. Does that help you to concentrate?"

Shifting his gaze her direction without moving his head, his blue eyes twinkled with amusement. "So, you find this entertaining, do you? Have you nothing better to do than tease me?"

"No, nothing," she replied, laughingly.

He dipped the razor into the water to rinse it, then applied it to his cheek. "You look beautiful with your hair like that," he told her.

She instantly reached up to finger the long strands, self-consciously. "I have never worn my hair like this in public, but I noticed that Angelina had taken her hair down and pinned it back like this last night before we retired. It looked becoming on her, and since I have no one to fix my hair, I thought I should wear it the same way."

"If you desired, I am certain that Angelina would be pleased to help you," he suggested.

"I cannot impose upon her. Besides, for these next few days, I want to forget that I am the queen mother. I simply want to be your wife."

Several moments of silence ensued, during which he rinsed the blade again and moved to the other cheek.

Turning, she walked to the window near which she and D'Artagnan had sat the previous night, and viewed the scenery. Their window overlooked the rear of the property, and from there she stood she could see the horses and cattle grazing in the pasture. Just outside the pasture on the left were the orchards. On the right were fields of grain and a productive vegetable garden. And beyond it all were lush green hills and meadows, dotted with clumps of trees and shrubs, and blanketed with a thin layer of ground mist which would quickly dissipate in the sunshine that was peeking over the horizon.

D'Artagnan was constantly aware of her presence as she gazed out the window, and irresistibly drawn to her, he placed the razor on the edge of the basin and went to the window, where he pulled her into his arms for a kiss. His face was still wet, and she pushed him away, playfully.

"Later! Right now, we must get down to breakfast, or Porthos and Angelina will wonder about us."

"They will _know_ about us," he corrected with a smile as he retrieved the blade to complete his task of shaving.

"All the more reason!" she protested. Soft color rose in her cheeks. "I could see the look in Porthos's eyes when I retired last night. I would imagine that he teased you shamefully."

D'Artagnan laughed, amiably. "No, but now that you mention it, I am a bit surprised that he did not. On the other hand, he has Angelina to keep him entertained, so perhaps he was thinking only of her."

He rinsed his face and dried it on a towel, then removed his shirt from where it hung on the bedpost, pulled it on over his head, and tucked it into his breeches. Then he held his hand out to her. "I will escort my beautiful wife to breakfast."

Together, they walked down the stairs and into the dining hall, where Porthos was waiting at the head of his long banquet table.

"Good morning," the ex-Musketeer said cheerfully, but the crude comment that he had intended to following the greeting was quickly staunched out of respect for the queen mother. He could always tease his old friend, but it was different with the mother of the king of France. With her quite dignity, it seemed most improper.

"Good morning," D'Artagnan replied.

Porthos gestured toward the tableware that was already in place, indicating where they should sit. "I know it is customary for the master of the house to sit at the head of the table and the mistress at the foot, but this table is too long and my hearing is not what it once was, so I prefer to have her and my guests seated near me."

D'Artagnan pulled out a chair for his wife, and when she was seated he sat down beside her.

Angelina entered the dining hall with platters of food in both hands, and Porthos quickly stood up to assist her.

"Good morning!" she said cheerfully to her guests as the items were placed on the table. Then she took her place at Porthos's side, and they filled their plates and began to eat. "I hope your room was satisfactory."

"It was perfect, thank you," Anne replied. "There is a lovely view of the orchards from the window."

"You should see them in the spring when the fruit trees are in blossom," Porthos said. "Absolutely stunning. When the fruit is ripe, Angelina will be making cider and preserves. I will see that some is sent to you at the palace."

"I would like that. Thank you. I am so pleased that you shared your home with us for the wedding," Anne said. "Being away from the palace like this, away from all the servants and assistants is much more pleasant than I ever dreamed it could be. Always, there is someone following me around when I leave my rooms, offering drinks that I do not want, snacks that I do not need, and never am I truly by myself except in my private chamber. While I am here, please do not feel that you need to entertain me or wait on me. The only title I want for these next few days is wife to my husband."

"We will leave it to you then," Porthos offered. "Anything you want or need, simply ask and it shall be yours."

"You are most kind."

D'Artagnan smiled at her. "What do you wish to do today?"

"Well, this morning I would like to walk to the chapel for morning prayers, and then I would like to simply walk in your gardens and look around."

"Whatever pleases you, my lady," Porthos told her.

D'Artagnan took her hand and kissed it. "I will join you."

"And I want to get used to being away from the palace," she added, drawing sympathetic glances from the others at the table. "I was content with my life there, sequestered away in my chambers, but now I realize that there is much more to be done with my life and I cannot hide myself away. I must reacquaint myself with things outside the palace gates. But I must go slowly. During the coach ride yesterday, I was so nervous I could barely look out at the scenery. I know it must have been beautiful, and Philippe kept trying to get me to look at one thing or another, but I felt fear at being in the open. I do not want to feel fear any more when I am in public."

"We will start small," D'Artagnan suggested. "Perhaps later in the day or tomorrow, I can take you for a walk around the stables and the orchards, venturing a little farther from the house each time."

She smiled. "I would like that. And later in the week, as I grow more accustomed to being away from the palace, I would like for my husband to take me on a horseback ride."

"It would be my pleasure to accompany my wife on a horseback ride," he replied.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Philippe walked alone in the rose garden, enjoying the fragrance of the flowers that were in full bloom. The palace loomed behind him, gleaming in the early morning sunshine. Several rows over, a gardener carefully pruned the spent flowers from the bushes, encouraging new blooms, and as he spied the young man walking nearby, he bent low in respect of his king.

King.

After four weeks, the word still seemed foreign when spoken of him, and he continued to remain in awe of the remarkable turn of events that had placed him on the throne and changed his life forever. It had not been so very long ago that he still lived in the mask, isolated from the rest of the world, a lonely, forgotten soul who had despaired of ever seeing freedom again. And now he was the king of France.

As he strolled along the paths so frequently enjoyed by his mother, he was constantly aware of the Musketeers who patrolled the edge of the garden, maintaining a watchful distance from their king while constantly scanning the area for signs of intruders. He could not help but wonder what was going on in their minds as they performed their duties, as it was unlikely that they had ever witnessed Louis enjoying the simple pleasures of a leisurely stroll among the roses, and if they had, he was almost certainly accompanied by one beautiful woman or another.

Pausing at a lovely fragrant rose, he cupped it in his hands and bent to inhale its perfume. How wonderful it was to smell such sweet things instead of the stench of decay and sweat and human waste and misery. He would never take these simple beauties for granted.

Sensing a presence, he turned around abruptly and found Christine standing there, framed by the climbing vines on the trellis behind her. She had apparently been watching him for some time, for there was a puzzled expression on her face. When she saw that she had his attention, she curtseyed.

"Ah, Christine," he said, trying to sound as arrogant as Louis would. "The garden is lovely, is it not?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," she replied, but she continued to look at him with that strange expression.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

"No, your majesty," she replied. She lowered her gaze, briefly. The king had expressed such displeasure with her the previous month that she had been uncertain that he would even speak to her at all, much less speak to her so civilly. "I do not wish to disturb you, your majesty."

There was clearly something on her mind; something it seemed she wished to discuss but apparently was uncomfortable doing so. After a few moments, she started to turn away from him, apparently deciding to leave him alone.

"Christine," he said, stopping her as she turned, and he immediately wondered why he had done such a thing. He had been warned to avoid her, yet he craved a conversation with someone his own age. He held out his hand toward her in a welcoming gesture. "Come walk with me. It has been some time since we last spoke."

She approached him rather reluctantly, visibly uncomfortable to be in his presence, but he could only wonder why. He knew his father and Athos would strongly disapprove of any attempts to talk to her, but if she spoke of something he knew nothing about, he would simply change the subject, a sign that he was growing more and more confident of himself.

With her eyes carefully averted, she said softly, "I wanted to thank your majesty for your kindness in allowing your physicians to continue caring for my mother and sister. And also for allowing me to remain a while longer, even after I had confessed to you that I only pretended to love you."

_So, that was it!_ he thought. _Louis must have truly cared for her, and he had covered his hurt with anger._

"I can only wonder why you did not send me away immediately," she said.

"Must I have a reason?" he asked rather flippantly, hating the fact that he must continue with the charade in her presence. Here was someone who, under different circumstances, could have been his friend.

She looked up, searching his eyes for some indication of what he was thinking, but was unable to read the thoughts behind them. He was squinting in the glare of the sun, but the anger and tension that she had seen during her last meeting with the king was no longer there. Curiously, he seemed more at peace than she had even known him to be.

"I suppose not," she replied, cautiously. "I have watched you these past few weeks."

He was surprised by this, for he had not noticed her. "Have you?"

"Yes, your majesty. I would sometimes see you from my window, or as I took my daily walk." She briefly considering asking him about the other day, when she thought had seen him watching her through the secret door, but after consideration, decided against it. If it had been her imagination, he would think her foolish. Besides, Louis would never have fled like that. It might have been one of the servants, and speaking to the king might have serious ramifications for the perpetrator.

Philippe recognized the rather suspicious look in her eyes, and knew that she was thinking of his blunder at the secret door to her room. Inwardly, he prayed that she would not bring it up, for he would have to deny it.

Thankfully, she bypassed the subject. "Sometimes, when I am looking at you, it is as if I am looking at someone else entirely," she said.

Philippe felt a twinge deep inside. Somehow, Christine was sensing that something was different about him, that he was not the Louis she had known. He shrugged. "Well, we all change," he suggested, stooping to smell another of the fragrant roses, unaware that his action was feeding her suspicion.

"I have never seen you stop to enjoy the simple beauty of a rose filled garden." She reached out to caress the rose's velvety petals. "This is not the Louis I know."

"And do you like this new Louis?" he asked, curiously, turning to face her again.

She blushed slightly at his direct question. She was accustomed to Louis' bold behavior, but it was more difficult for her to be direct with the king. "Well, I . . . "

He smiled, accepting her blush as his answer. "What if I was a different Louis?" he asked. "How would you feel about that?"

Again, she hesitated. She knew he was playing with her, but was uncertain how much she could say without bringing him to anger. She proceeded cautiously. "I do not know how to answer that, Sire. How can you be a different Louis?"

"Things are not always as they seem," he said, cryptically. His hand reached for one of the roses, then took note of its color. It was red, the color that D'Artagnan always presented to Anne. He was his father's son, but as a young man, he felt a desire for individuality. Moving to the next bush, he plucked a pink rose from the bush and offered it to her. "A token of my esteem," he said.

As she reached for the rose, she gazed into his eyes and saw the gentleness and compassion there, where before she had seen coldness and cruelty. Her eyes darted back and forth, looking deeply into one blue eye and then the other, feeling suddenly confused. "Your eyes . . . " she began, then her voice drifted away.

"What about them?" he asked.

"They are so different. Like they belong to a different man. If I did not know better, I would swear . . . "

"What?" he prompted, intrigued, when she abandoned her statement. "What would you swear?"

She instantly broke eye contact. "Forgive me, sire. I should not be speaking so boldly."

"Please, I wish you would speak freely. Most people are afraid to speak openly to me. You obviously have something on your mind, so please, continue."

She hesitated briefly, then abandoned the subject, which he decided was probably for the best, considering her perceptiveness. Instead, she said, "I was wondering . . . " She paused yet again, clearly fearful of causing an angry outburst, but he seemed to be in an unusually good mood, so she forged ahead. "Sire, I have been thinking. You have been most kind to allow me to stay on these past weeks, even though you have not come to my room. I believe it is time that I returned to my mother and my sister."

He nodded his head in agreement. "If that is your wish, then I will provide a coach to transport you and your belongings back to your mother's home."

This was unexpected. "I can hire myself home, your majesty," she said, quickly.

"I wouldn't dream of it," he replied. "I will provide a coach and driver to see you safely home."

"You are very kind, sire."

"Family is an important thing, Christine," he said as they began to walk slowly along the path again. "I am just now coming to understand that. Have you heard that Mother has finally consented to take a holiday away from the palace?"

Gossiping about the royal family was forbidden, even though everyone knew it existed, but he seemed to think she should be aware of his mother's departure, so she nodded. "Yes, I heard something about that last evening. I heard that it was you who convinced her."

"It was time, don't you think?" Without waiting for her to respond, he continued, "I was worried about her, always keeping to herself, locking herself away in her rooms. She is still young enough to enjoy life, and should not be secluding herself away like that."

"Yes, sire," she responded, looking very confused.

"We kept it a secret until the last moment to prevent any unscrupulous persons from attempting to bring harm to her or the coach. I think she will have a good time."

They reached the edge of the rose garden, and he stopped again and turned to face her. His expression was solemn as he spoke, words she had never expected to hear. "Christine, I have done many things in my life of which I am not proud, and the things I did to you are among the most contemptible of all. I pray you can forgive me, and that you will enjoy a long and happy life, and I hope you will find someone that you can love as you loved your Raoul. I truly am sorry."

She stared at him for a long moment, gazing into those eyes that seemed so kind, and she knew that he was sincere. She bent slightly in a respectful curtsey. "In time, perhaps I will learn to forgive you, sire, but I cannot imagine loving anyone as I loved Raoul."

Philippe felt a tug at his heart. How could his brother have been so cruel that he would send a young man to his death so that he could demand favors from his fiancée? "I truly regret that the actions of the king are responsible for his death. It was a cruel and selfish thing to do."

"I would like to leave today, if it would not be inconvenient," she continued without commenting on his expression of regret. Speaking of Raoul with the man who had sent him to his death was causing tears to crowd behind her eyes.

Philippe realized that she was becoming emotional, and backed away from the subject. "I will have a carriage at the side entrance at five o'clock this evening. Would that be agreeable?"

"Very much. Thank you, your majesty." She curtseyed again and backed away from him, then turned and made her way back up the path toward the palace.

He sighed heavily as he watched her go, still wondering how his brother could have wronged her so terribly. She was a nice young woman who did not deserve the treatment she had received.

After a moment, he made his way up a different path toward the entrance to the palace, and went immediately to his office where Athos was waiting. He knew that his father's old friend was displeased the instant he turned to face him, for his expression was stern. Philippe closed the door and waited for the expected rebuke. He did not have long to wait.

"I saw you in the rose garden with Christine," Athos said. "It was explained to you why you must avoid her."

"Do not be angry with me, Athos," Philippe replied. "She was requesting my permission to send her back to her family. I offered a coach to take her home. That is all there was to it. She is leaving this evening."

"The conversation appeared to be a bit more than that."

Philippe gave a slight nod of acknowledgement. "Very well, if you must know, we talked for a few minutes. It was a private conversation and I will not disclose the content, but I will say that all is well. She is leaving, and there is nothing more to be said."

Athos looked at him for a long moment, surprised by the mild defiance he had heard in the younger man's voice. The uncertainly that he had carried with him when he had first arrived at the palace was beginning to dissipate, and he was growing much more confident. "Very well. We will speak no more about it, then."

Philippe sat down at the desk and leaned back in the chair, thinking about his parents. He had seen them both every day since his arrival at the palace, and he missed them in their absence. "I wish we could visit Mother and Father today, but I guess it would be best to let them be alone during this time."

"Yes, I think it would be a good idea," Athos agreed.

"Mother was very nervous during the trip to the estate yesterday. I had no idea how dependent she had become on her seclusion. How long has she been like this?"

Athos sat down on the edge of the desk, something he would never have attempted had it been Louis instead of Philippe. "Quite some time. She started withdrawing more and more after your birth, but as the years went by it became even worse. Sometimes, the only time anyone would see her was when she would take her daily walks to the chapel. No one knew why she had become so reclusive."

"It was painful for her to see my father, wasn't it?"

"I would imagine it was."

"All those years that they were in love, did you never see any indication of it?" Philippe asked, curiously.

"None. They concealed it very well, for not one of us ever suspected anything. I look back, trying to think of details, things I might have overlooked, but I can recall nothing that would provide even a minute indication that he was concealing something from me. The only thing I can remember was the way he used to look at Raoul when he was young. A look of what I thought at the time was the affection for the son of his best friend, but now I believe it was wistfulness. Of wishing he could hold and play with his own son, as he and I used to hold and play with Raoul."

"While I was speaking to Christine, she mentioned Raoul," Philippe said, thoughtfully. "She said that she could not imagine loving someone as much as she loved him. I know that had he not been killed, she would never have accepted my brother's advances." He paused for a long moment, still trying to comprehend such a thing. "I cannot even imagine how Louis could do something so cruel and live with himself afterward."

Athos was silent for a long time, then said quietly, "That is the difference between the two of you. Now, if you don't mind, I do not want to talk about Louis. What I would like to do is make a request regarding Christine."

Philippe gave an agreeable nod, listening while Athos made his request.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Later that afternoon, Christine placed the last of her belongings in the shipping crate, and stood back to take one final look around the room that had been hers during her stay at the palace. Decorated in feminine colors and contours, the bedroom and the sitting room had clearly been constructed to be pleasing to a woman's eye. It had certainly pleased her eye. It was the most beautiful private chamber she had ever seen. It had been her retreat during the past few weeks, since she had lost favor with the king, but lately it seemed that the walls were closing in on her, reminding her of the things that had happened there. She would be glad to leave it behind.

Someone would be coming for her soon to carry her possessions down to he coach, so while she waited, she sat down on the edge of the bed and placed her hand on the center of it where she had allowed Louis to have his way with her. She sighed heavily as her mind went back over all those days and nights when she had made herself available for his whims. Her heart had never been in it, but she had performed for him, pretending to love him as he expected she would, and she felt ashamed of the fact that she had initially been flattered by his lavish attention. But, as her mother had said that last night she was at home, no one could deny the king. If only her mother had known the truth of why Louis had invited her to the palace.

A knock at the door brought her out of her reverie, and she got up to open it, then drew her breath in sharply in a small gasp of surprise.

Athos stood before her, the first time she had been in his presence since coming to the palace. After Raoul had been returned to the front lines, he had come frequently to the house to inquire whether his son's fiancée and her family had everything they needed, but his visits had abruptly stopped after Raoul's death, when he had learned that she had accepted Louis' offer to become a lady in waiting to the queen. It should have been an honorable title with great prestige, but Athos had known that the title was a smokescreen to disguise the reality of what would be expected of her.

There was sorrow in his expression as their eyes met from opposite sides of the threshold, and she experienced an overwhelming sense of self-abhorrence that she had betrayed the memory of his son.

"Athos," she whispered.

"The king informs me that you are returning home to your family," he said in a quiet voice. "I requested permission to be your escort."

She turned her face away, unable to meet his eyes. "I am surprised that you would even want to be near me after the things I have done."

Athos's gaze did not waver. Since the day she had moved into the palace, it had been difficult to even speak her name, usually referring to her simply as _Louis' mistress_, but as the days and weeks had gone by, he had come to accept that she was a part of what little he had left of his son. Through Raoul, he and Christine shared a common bond of love and loss, and they could be a source of comfort to one another. "I know you were given little choice, and I bear you no ill will."

Her eyes snapped back to his face as a sense of relief washed over her with the knowledge that Athos did not despise her. "It is true," she acknowledged. "He left me no choice. He invited me to the palace to become a lady in waiting to his mother, which is supposed to be a great honor. I did not know that the title was a pretentious way of getting me into his service. Imagine my surprise when I learned that my duties were not to the queen mother, but to him. I tried to resist him that first time, but he was persistent. I was still grieving for Raoul, and did not want to do it, but he insisted. My mother and my sister have been ill, and he would have denied help to them had I refused."

"The king tells me that he apologized to you for causing you such grief."

"Yes, he did. I found that most strange, for I have never known him to apologize for anything. I do not understand it, but he seems different these days, much kinder. I found him walking in the rose garden this morning, and he looked happier than I have ever known him to be." Her eyes studied his careworn face, puzzled by the fact that he was now working in the palace at the king's side. "I heard that you tried to kill him when you were told about Raoul."

"For a time, I allowed my bitterness and my anger to consume me, and yes, I was determined to make him pay for murdering my son."

"Yet now you serve him. Have you been able to forgive him?"

Athos quickly averted his eyes to hide the smoldering hatred that still burned in his heart for Louis, wishing he could tell her the truth: that he would never, under any circumstances, serve the man who had been responsible for the death of his son, and that the man he now served was not Louis, but his more deserving twin brother. When he spoke, she noticed that he chose his words carefully. "The king is making an effort to right the wrongs that has been committed. Unfortunately, there are some wrongs that can never be made right again. My son can never be brought back to me and I do not know that I can ever forgive that. But there are changes occurring within the court, and it is my wish to be a part of them. I am here for the welfare of the country."

"I have heard from the servants that Louis is helping the poor people of Paris," she said.

"Yes," Athos confirmed. "What will you do now?"

She shrugged. "I do not know. I had expected my life to be much different that it has turned out to be. The only thing I wanted was to marry Raoul." The tears were burning behind her eyes again and, unable to hold them at bay, she covered her face with her hands and wept, expelling all the heartache that she had buried deep inside. For months, she had been little more than an empty shell, shutting out all the pain and humiliation in an attempt to keep herself from going totally insane. But now, it boiled to the surface and she allowed the tears to flow unchecked. "I miss him so much!" she cried.

Athos watched quietly, his face expressionless, but after a few moments, he approached her and placed his arm around her. "We will get through it, Christine," he said, gently.

She buried her face against his shoulder, seeking comfort from him. "I wanted so much for us to be a family," she sobbed. "To be his wife."

"I wanted that as well. And I hope you do not think me forward for continuing to think of you as my daughter. Should you ever marry, I hope you will permit me to walk you down the aisle."

She looked up into his face. "I would be so honored to have you walk with me, but until I heal from everything that has happened, I cannot even think about loving someone else."

"But you will heal, just as I will too. I will always be there for you, should you need to talk or if you need help. I know the king has agreed to continue treatment for your mother and your sister, but please do not hesitate to summon me if I can be of service to you."

"Your offer means a lot to me," she said, wiping the tears from her cheeks.

"I asked the men who will be moving your belongings to give us a few minutes alone. I will summon them now, and I will ride along with you and get you settled."

"Thank you so much, Athos. I feared you would hate me."

He smiled, sadly. "My son loved you. Therefore, I could never hate you. Come; your coach is waiting."

She took his arm, and accepted his escort. She held her head up as she walked down the long corridors toward the side entrance, hoping that in time she could cleanse her soiled spirit and somehow find happiness again.


	34. Chapter Thirty Four

Thirty Four

For D'Artagnan and Anne, the next five days passed rapidly as she gradually became acclimated to being away from the familiar, comfortable environment in which she had existed at the palace. Each morning, as was her custom, she walked to the chapel for morning prayers, and then every afternoon she took a long walk with her husband, first in the flower gardens behind the house, then progressing farther out to the orchards and the stables. And finally, on the last day, she felt comfortable enough to request that horses be saddled so she could enjoy a ride deeper into the property.

Shortly after breakfast, Porthos placed his late wife's best sidesaddle on a docile bay gelding while D'Artagnan saddled his gray stallion. Then he assisted his wife into the sidesaddle.

An expert horsewoman in her youth, it had been many years since Anne had been in a saddle, and she experienced the expected nervousness as she arranged her skirts, then collected the reins and tested her balance in the saddle.

"Comfortable?" D'Artagnan asked.

"Yes," she replied. "And a little nervous, but I am told that you never completely forget how to ride."

"That is true," he agreed. "It will all come back to you, and you will be as relaxed as you ever were. I have always thought that you look very beautiful in the saddle," he added, approvingly.

"I was thinking the same thing," Porthos said. "I remember how you used to accompany the king on horseback to his falconry demonstrations. You turned the eye of every man present."

D'Artagnan was smiling. "You certainly caught mine."

Soft color rose in her cheeks. She well remembered the way the men had discreetly admired her as she had ridden alongside her first husband. If Louis had noticed their interest in her, he had never reacted to it. But then, he had never noticed much about his young bride. He was more interested in other things. "Well, that was a long time ago," she said, modestly.

Taking the reins of the stallion, D'Artagnan mounted and gathered his reins.

"You two have a nice time," Porthos instructed. "I used to ride the property with my dear departed wife. There are many lovely areas to investigate. Angelina will have a lovely lunch prepared for you when you return."

Leaning against the paddock fence, he watched as the couple moved at a walk down the lane toward the open fields behind the populated areas of the property. They rode first past the fenced pastures where Porthos's livestock grazed. The cattle ignored the riders completely, their massive heads buried in the lush green grass, but some of the horses raised their heads and whinnied greetings to their stable mates. One particularly friendly gelding plodded alongside the fence until end of the enclosure forced it to stop. Farther out, they passed the vegetable gardens and the tall stands of grain that would feed the livestock through the winter.

For a while, the newly wedded couple rode in silence, content to enjoy to beauty of the country afternoon. They rode up gentle hills and into peaceful valleys, and through lush grassy meadows, providing the reclusive queen mother with the beauty that only nature can provide. She took it all in eagerly, as if starved for the outside world. D'Artagnan maintained his quiet observation of the area around them, as was his habit, but he enjoyed seeing his wife's face shining with happiness as she looked at everything around them.

A doe and a pair of twin fawns bounded from the grassy meadow, briefly startling the horses, and they watched as the agile animals disappeared into the safety of a dense grove of trees.

"Did you see them?" Anne asked, eagerly.

"Roe deer," he replied as they nudged their horses into a walk again. "There is an abundance of them in this area. The farmers complain because they eat the grain while it is still on the stalk."

"But they are so beautiful, and she has twins also!"

D'Artagnan smiled with amusement. "You are enjoying yourself?"

"Very much! I have been hidden away in my chambers, sequestered from the rest of the world for so many years that I feel as if I need to see everything! Porthos must own a great deal of land!" she exclaimed. "We have been riding for a long time, and we have not yet reached the boundaries?"

"We are nearing the far edge of the estate," he replied. "Yes, he owns a great deal of land, but he leaves most of it as it is, so that he can hunt occasionally. There is a secluded spot near the property line where we will stop and rest before starting back."

A pheasant took flight from under the nose of D'Artagnan's stallion, and it snorted in alarm and half feared. When it was on all four hooves again, it pranced for a few moments until it was brought under control by its rider's firm hand.

Anne's placid gelding barely flinched, allowing her ample time to admire her husband on his handsome horse. "You were on horseback the first time I ever took notice of you," she said. "You were a young lieutenant then, and you were mounted on a fine black steed. Porthos's comments about Louis' falconry reminded me of it, for you and some of the other Musketeers had accompanied us. While he watched the falcons, I watched you. I dare say, my lady in waiting noticed my interest in you and teased me mercilessly about it when we returned to the palace that evening!"

"I remember," he said with a fond smile. "I felt your eyes on me, and when I turned toward you, you immediately looked away, but I could tell by your blush that you were embarrassed that I had caught you."

"I was trying to act so nonchalant, like I had not been caught at anything, but I knew I was failing miserably. I knew it was wrong to be attracted to you, but I could not help myself."

"Nor could I. You were the wife of the king, and I was a Musketeer, a man of honor and duty, but a man nonetheless who still thinks you are the most beautiful woman on earth."

When they reached a low, rocky bluff, they circled it until they reached the other side, where a scattered cluster of trees offered shade. Here, they dismounted, intending to rest for a while before returning to the house.

While D'Artagnan secured the horses to one of the trees, Anne strolled casually to the edge of the shade to look out across the gently waving meadow grass. It was a beautiful area of the property, lush open fields, dotted here and there with groves of trees and shrubs and an occasional lone tree of larger proportion than the others. Somewhere in the copse behind her, she could hear the soft trickling of water from an unseen stream. Deep inside, she began to experience a sense of longing for a simpler life than the one she had lived.

Approaching her from behind, D'Artagnan slipped his arms around her waist from behind, and she leaned back against him, contentedly. "Happy?" he asked.

"Happier than I have ever been in my entire life," she replied. "It is so beautiful here," she said. "I can only wonder how different my life would have been had I not been born to royalty. All I have ever known is the pomp and pageantry of life at the palace. The common people, and even the nobles, look at the palace and long for such a life, never knowing the difficulties of so much responsibility. Sometimes, I wish I could trade places with them."

He glanced at her, for it seemed that they were thinking similar thoughts. His friend's rich abundance spread out in all directions, and over the past few days he had found himself wishing for the kind of life his father had known. From his arrival in Paris at the age of eighteen, his life had been spent in the service of the king. Now in mid-life, he had never known a home of his own, and experienced a twinge of envy for what Porthos possessed. "Being here with you like this makes me wish that you and I could find a place of our own, somewhere in the country where no one knows us, and where we can openly live as husband and wife."

Turning her head to look at him, she offered him a smile. "Perhaps we can," she suggested. "When you are ready to retire from the Musketeers, we will find a place far enough from Paris that no one will know us, but near enough that Philippe can visit and I can visit Louis. We will allow the world to think that I have retired to a convent, but we will live as a country gentleman and his adorning wife."

"You cannot imagine how my heart yearns or such a life. But would you be happy living away from the palace? From everything you have known all your life?"

"I will be happy as long as I am with you."

"That is the way I feel, also."

"When the time comes, we will discuss it then. As for the present, I am content merely to be your husband."

As they turned their attention back to the scenery, D'Artagnan's sharp eye suddenly caught a movement inside a dense thicket on the other side of the meadow, and he grasped Anne's arm to gain her attention.

Anne glanced quickly at him in surprise, feeling the urgency in his touch, and he pressed his forefinger to his lips then gestured toward the trees directly across from them. Shifting her gaze, fearful that they might have been caught by spies, her pulse quickened as her eyes sought out the source of her husband's sudden concern.

For several moments, she saw only the gently nodding boughs and fronds of the thick foliage, nudged by a barely perceptible breeze. And then she saw it: a shadowy figure moving slowly through the brush and entering a copse of trees. At first, she thought it was an animal, a roe deer perhaps, but as she focused on it, it began to take a familiar shape. No, it was definitely human, two of them, moving one behind the other, creeping through the undergrowth in a manner which suggested they were deliberately trying to avoid being seen.

"Who could it be?" she wondered, her voice a whisper.

"I do not know," he replied, "but I do know that they should not be trespassing on Porthos's property." Returning to the horses, he opened his saddle satchel and withdrew a musket pistol from it. "Wait here; I will confront them."

She clutched his arm desperately, fearful of losing the happiness they had finally found. "No! D'Artagnan, please! There are two of them, and you are only one!"

He smiled and gently pressed her chin between his thumb and forefinger. "Do not worry, my love. They have not yet spotted us, so I have the element of surprise, and I will, as I always have, use caution. It is likely that they are nothing more than lost travelers seeking a shortcut."

Reluctantly, she released his arm, and he gazed attentively across the distance that separated him from the two intruders. They had disappeared from view, and had apparently moved to the other side of the copse of trees that concealed them. Quietly, keeping low in an attempt to avoid detection, D'Artagnan started across the sea of tall meadow grass, pausing occasionally in the protection of a single tree or shrub as he perused the thicket.

Anne watched silently from her position near the bluff, praying silently for her husband's safety as he moved stealthily across the meadow.

When D'Artagnan finally reached the copse of trees, he skirted quietly around the outside of it, walking in the tall meadow grass to avoid the fallen leaves inside the thicket. His eyes bored deep into the shadows, searching for the intruders. They were not difficult to locate even though he had lost sight of them, for they were making a great deal of noise as they pushed their way through the foliage and trampled on last year's fallen leaves. A splash of color from the jacket worn by the man in front caught his eye, and he shrank down behind a mulberry to watch and wait.

"How much longer until we reach a town or a city?" asked a feminine voice. "We have been traveling since before daylight."

"It will take a while," the young man acknowledged in a voice that sounded familiar to him. "Isabelle, you knew this would not be an easy journey for either of us."

"Forgive me," she pleaded. "I am just so tired. I have no right to complain when you can barely walk. We should have taken one of the horses."

"No, I will not be accused of horse theft. We can rest here for a short time, then we must be moving on. The longer we stay in the area, the greater our risk of discovery. Your father will have sent out a search party by now."

"He will shoot you on sight if we are discovered," she said, tearfully. "Oh, Francois! I could not bare it if you were to be killed!"

_Francois!_

The conversation continued as D'Artagnan crept from his hiding place and approached them, but he barely listened to it. He moved cautiously, placing each step with great care to avoid crunching leaves under his boot, and quietly pushed aside the fronds and low branches that blocked his path, following the dapples of blue fabric that could be seen through the leaves. When he reached the young couple, he found them side by side on a rotting log that had fallen many years earlier, their shoulders slumped with exhaustion. Their faces expressed weariness, as if they had been traveling a long time, and the girl wore a streak of dirt across her cheek. Francois, he noticed, carried a homemade cane to support his fractured leg, and his hand was pressing on the leg as if to sooth the pain he must have been experiencing.

"Stay where you are," D'Artagnan commanded.

Startled out of their rest, both of the young people jumped in fright, and Francois half-rose from the log. "Captain D'Artagnan!" he exclaimed as panic swept across his face, followed quickly by resignation. He heaved a heavy sigh as he sank back down on the log. "We are caught, my darling. This is the head bodyguard to the king." To D'Artagnan, he asked, "Is he here? Has he been notified of our absence?

Isabelle clutched the arm of her lover, but her pleading eyes locked with the stern eyes of the captain. "Please, Monsieur. I beg you to let us go in peace. My father will kill him if you make us go back!"

"What are you doing out here?" D'Artagnan asked. He knew the answer to the question before he asked it, but it seemed the appropriate thing to say at the moment. "You are running away together?"

Francois looked away, as if ashamed. "This is not how I wished to begin our lives together, but her father would never allow us to marry, so we decided to leave together so that we might start a new life somewhere else."

"Have you any idea what you are doing?" D'Artagnan asked. "Running away together is a romantic notion, but have you thought this through? Where will you go? How will you live?"

"I will work, Monsieur!" Francois retorted. "I can do many things beside dress and bathe the king!"

"I am sure you can," D'Artagnan agreed in a placating voice. "But Mademoiselle is unaccustomed to the sacrifices and hardships you will face. And you barely know each other. How can you be certain that this is truly what you want?"

"We have thought of little else since Francois broke his leg five weeks ago," she replied. "And we have known one another much longer than that! I have accompanied my parents to many of Louis' soirees. That is where I first saw Francois. We used to slip away together, stealing a moment here and a moment there while all the while our hearts ached that we could not acknowledge our feelings for one another." She was almost in tears. "Please, Monsieur! You have no idea what it is like to hold someone in your heart that you cannot have! I will gladly sacrifice everything I have known to be with him!"

D'Artagnan lowered his gaze with a slow shake of his head. How familiar all this sounded! All the years of longing and separation he and Anne had endured during their lives was shared by this young couple that sat before him, a couple who had the opportunity to do what he and Anne never could; leave France and begin life anew. He held their fate in his hands. "I know more about it than you think," he admitted, solemnly.

"That is why you never married," Francois guessed. "You loved someone you could not have. Then you do understand."

"You love each other?" he asked, solemnly.

"I love her with all my heart," Francois responded instantly.

"And I love him," Isabelle added. "Monseiur, my father has committed me to marriage to the elder son of de Longueau. He is a horrid man, much older than I, whom I do not wish to marry. You speak of the life of privilege I have known and all that I am giving up, but the life I would endure as de Longeuau's wife is far worse than any hardships that Francois and I might face. I am not naïve enough to believe that it will be easy. I know I have much to learn. But it is what I want."

D'Artagnan's eyes fell upon the young man, observing the way he rubbed his leg, massaging it with his hand. He had clearly been lying about being unable to walk, but after five weeks the fracture was still mending. "Your leg bothers you?"

"I can manage," the young man said.

"Pride can be a man's downfall," the older man cautioned. "Careful that you do not let it get in the way of your common sense. You have lied to the king about the condition of your injury, yet the leg is not mended will enough to endure such a long walk. You could do permanent damage."

"We had no choice. The king sends someone to check on me every few days, and they are starting to wonder why I claimed I have been unable to walk."

"A ruse, stalling for time so that might give yourself time to heal before you could set out on your lives together," he guessed.

"My father is growing suspicious," Isabelle added. "I know he has been eager to return Francois to the palace, to rid himself of the responsibility of caring for him, but I fear also that he suspects my true feelings. We knew we had to leave as soon as possible. We left during the night, so that we could be well away before the others awoke."

"Unfortunately, you have not come very far. You are on the far edge of the property of the Baron du Vallon."

The young couple looked at each other in both surprise and disappointment. "My injury has slowed us down, but I thought we must have come much farther than this," Francois said, severely discouraged.

"With that leg, you are lucky to have made it this far," D'Artagnan pointed out. "You cannot continue this way, or you may be permanently crippled. Where will you be then?"

Hopelessness was reflected in the youthful faces of the couple. Francois shook his head slowly in defeat. "You are right, Captain. As a cripple, I will be unable to support her."

"What are you going to do, Monsieur?" Isabelle asked. "Are you going to summon my father?"

D'Artagnan observed them for a moment. They were young and impulsive, as he and Anne had once been, and there was no guarantee that they would find happiness together, but what right did he have to deny them the opportunity to find out? "No, I will not deny you the opportunity that I never had, but I cannot leave you here like this either." He glanced back toward the bluff where Anne waited with the horses. Francois was inexperienced and would be unable to handle the stallion even if he was inclined to give it to him. The other horse was not his to give, and they needed both animals to get back to the manor house. Nor could he take them back to the house with him, for they must not know about Anne's presence there. "Have you food and water? What about money?"

"I have the money from my dowry," Isabelle said. "And we have some bread," she added, holding up a piece of cloth with the bread wrapped inside it. "I took it from the pantry before we left. We drank from a stream nearby, but we did not think to bring anything to carry water with us."

"I have none with me." He paused, dragging his hand through his hair and along the back of his neck, as he considered their options. The decision was made quickly. "All right; I will help you as much as I am able. You are well concealed here, so rest and stay out of sight. I cannot guarantee that LaCroix will not come onto the property looking for you, so remain alert. If you hear riders coming, get down behind that log, flat on your bellies, and stay hidden. I will bring food, water, and horses within a few hours."

Francois struggled to his feet to clutch the Musketeer's hand. "Bless you, Captain. I feared you would betray us. Louis will not be forgiving of my deception."

"He may be more forgiving than you realize," D'Artagnan said. "Now, I must take your leave. Rest, and I will return soon."

The young couple sank back down on the log, their faces bright with renewed hope.

Leaving them, D'Artagnan jogged back across the meadow to the bluff where Anne waited, and he saw the relief on her face as he approached.

"It was Francois and Isabelle LaCroix," he explained, smiling. "It seems ours is not the only covert palace love affair between people of different ranks. She said that she has been promised to a man of her father's choosing, and she has run away with her true love."

"That explains why Francois claimed that his broken leg has been healing so slowly," she mused. "He fabricated the story so that he would have more time with her."

"It seems so."

"Monsieur LaCroix will wonder about his daughter. Are we obligated to tell him?"

"If I tell him, he will drag them back, probably force her to marry someone she does not love, and both of them will be miserable. Does that sound familiar?"

She nodded, slowly. "Yes, it does."

"Not to mention the fact that LaCroix will be perfectly within his rights to have Francois severely flogged as punishment for seducing his daughter."

"So what do we do?"

He sighed, uncomfortable with the position in which he had found himself. "I should not get involved in this, but I see them facing so much of the suffering we endured. I am going to see if Porthos will let me purchase two horses from him, and provide them with some food and water, and send them on their way."

"You have a kind heart, my darling," she said, approvingly. "But where will they go?"

"He indicated that they are leaving France and they are heading north, so my guess is that they will settle in England."

Anne looked away, her expression sad. "I know that is what they want, but I cannot help but feel great sorrow for Madam LaCroix. I know what it is like to be separated from a child. There is no pain like it."

"But there is a difference. Philippe was snatched from you as an infant, and then spent many years in terrible conditions. Isabelle LaCrois is a grown woman seeking happiness with the man she loves. All women eventually leave home to start a family of their own. And her mother still has other children at home. She will be fine. And the fact remains that none of this would have been necessary had Isabelle been allowed to marry whomever she chooses. These strict rules regarding the classes have created much heartache for those who must live up to them."

"But that is the way it has always been. People of wealth and status always seek to further their standing by arranging for their children to take spouses of equal status."

"I know, but it doesn't make it right. Look at your own life, and the grief it caused us."

"You are right, but I doubt that anything will ever change."

"No, but we can help this one couple." He untied the reins of Anne's horse. "Come, the longer we delay the greater their chances of discovery."

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Porthos was seated in the parlor with a book when D'Artagnan entered. Waving the usual greetings, he got right to the point, "Porthos, I wondered if you might consent to selling me a couple of horses."

Porthos looked up from his book in surprise, then joked, "Does the palace have a shortage of suitable mounts?"

This brought a slight smile. "No." He explained his chance encounter with Francois and Isabelle.

Porthos bellowed with laughter. "I would love to see the expression on that old goat's face when he realizes that his daughter has run off with the king's valet! He holds tradition and high status closer to his heart than he does his wife."

"Are you well acquainted with him?"

"Not well, but I have met him on occasion. Not the most pleasant fellow, but he will bend over backwards to advance his rank. I happen to know that the daughter was promised to a noble of some sort and had a handsome dowry. They will not be pleased. Which makes me more inclined to offer my help. I have too many horses as it is. Take two sturdy steeds to the young couple with my blessing. No, on second thought, I will accompany you. I wish to see this for myself! Have they any other needs?"

"Food and water, enough to get them well away from Paris."

Still chuckling with glee, Porthos leaned out the door and shouted down the hallway, "Angelina!" Turning back to D'Artagnan, he said, "I will provide food and water flasks, which they may refill in the streams they encounter. I will also give them some cash, for they will need it when they cross the channel." He turned back to the door. "Angel—!"

"Ah!" she exclaimed as she shrank back, her hands covering her ears into which he had just shouted. Her expression was so dazed that D'Artagnan struggled to keep from laughing.

"Aw, forgive me my darling," Porthos purred, placing an adoring hand on her shoulder and pulling her into his arms. "I did not see you there. Do you forgive me?"

"Of course," she replied, giving her head a small shake as if to clear it. "But when you shout for me, you must look to see if I am coming before you shout again like that! My ears are still buzzing! What was it you needed?"

"Find a sack and fill it with whatever food you can find."

"Are you going somewhere?"

"No. A mission of mercy, my dear. D'Artagnan and I are taking it to someone who needs our help. We will return shortly." He gently turned her around to face the door. "Go quickly. We will be saddling the horses in the stable, so bring it to us there."

"Anne will explain," D'Artagnan told her.

The two men hurried to the stable and selected four fresh horses, all of which were hurriedly saddled. On one, Porthos placed one of his wife's older sidesaddles for the young woman. Her favorite saddle, the one Anne had used, was retained as a cherished memento. As they were finishing up, Angelina appeared in the stable door with the sack of provisions. In her other hand was a pair of blankets.

"Her majesty told me everything. I thought they might need the blankets to keep them warm at night," she explained. "I think it is wonderful what you are doing. Godspeed to both of you."

He kissed her, adoringly. "Thank you, my dear. If LaCroix or any of his men come looking for permission to search my property, tell them I am not at home and that they must come back later. We will return as soon as we can."

The two men mounted their horses, and then with each of them leading the reins of the other horses, they cantered across country toward the thicket where D'Artagnan had seen the young couple.

"I feel like a young man again!" Porthos shouted happily to his friend as they galloped through the meadow. "I thrive on intrigue!"

When they reached the copse of trees, they tied their mounts at the edge, and led the other two horses into the shelter of the trees and tied them. Then they made their way deeper into the shadows, where the young couple was waiting.

D'Artagnan was not surprised to find that both the young man and young woman had fallen asleep. "I suspect they did not sleep at all last night, waiting for the right moment to slip out of the house, and then traveling part of the night and this morning. They are exhausted."

Kneeling down, he placed his hand on Francois' shoulder and shook it gently.

Francois awakened with a start, and his wide eyes looked into the face of D'Artagnan, who was kneeling beside him. "I must have fallen asleep," he explained. Beside him, Isabelle was beginning to stir. "We were more tired than I thought." Spying Porthos behind the captain, his expression changed to fear.

"Do not worry, young Francois," the jolly ex-Musketeer said. "I have brought gifts to you and your young lady. Two horses are tied just inside the thicket, and a sack of supplies is attached to the saddle. It should be enough to get you far from Paris."

Relieved, Francois climbed onto the fallen log again, and with sleepy eyes, Isabelle joined him. "I do not know how I can repay you for your kindness."

"I have some money," Isabelle offered.

"The only payment I ask is for the two of you to get safely away," Porthos assured them. "You must go quickly," he suggested. "I will make certain the searchers stay off my land until you have sufficient time to get away."

"Thank you, Monsieur. You are most kind."

"No offense to the young lady, but I do not care much for Monsieur LaCroix. He insulted my wife for marrying someone like me."

Isabelle rose up to kiss the older man on the cheek. "Well, I think you are a kind man, and we are indebted to you."

Porthos beamed with pleasure at the girl's words and the kiss.

"Keep off the main roads," D'Artagnan suggested. "You would be safer to cut across country, keeping well away from populated areas until you are far enough away. There are water flasks with the provisions. You can refill them whenever you come to a stream."

"And take care of the horses," Porthos said. "They have served me well, and they will serve you well." He withdrew his money pouch from his pocket and placed some coins in Francois' hand. "When you reach Calais, use this to secure passage across the channel for yourself and the horses. They are good horses, better than you can purchase at a public stable, so take them across with you. They will see you to your new home."

"I will," Francois said. "But how did you know we were going to England?"

"You are heading north, and besides, if I were running away from an angry father, I would feel safer with a large body of water between me and him. One more thing," he added with a knowing wink. "Get yourselves married as soon as you can and live a long and happy life."

"Good luck to you both," D'Artagnan said as they turned to go.

Returning to the horses, they mounted and rode back to the manor house. Francois and Isabelle mounted the two horses and resumed their journey.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

As they rode up the lane toward the stable, D'Artagnan and Porthos noticed a small group of riders near the front door of the manor house. Angelina stood on the stoop just outside the front door wearing expression of intense frustration as she attempted to convince them that the baron was not presently home, and it was evident that they were giving her a difficult time.

The two friends looked at each other, then by mutual, unspoken consent they reined their horses toward the house and rode quietly toward the three riders. It was easy to guess that the riders had been sent by LaCroix to hunt down his Francois and Isabelle. Drawing their horses to a stop behind them, D'Artagnan and Porthos listened with increasing annoyance as one of them, apparently the leader of the trio, berated Angelina for refusing to summon the master of the house.

"I have already told you, Monsieur," she protested. "He is not in the house at the moment."

"You lie," the man spat with disgust. "The drunken old fool is probably still abed sleeping off last night's bender. Summon him at once!"

"This drunken old fool wishes to know why you are trespassing on his property," Porthos said with authority.

Startled, the three riders turned around to face them, and with a feeling of delight Porthos absorbed the surprised expressions that passed across the faces of all of them. Having apparently seen him at his worst, all were impressed by the transformation in him. He was now well-dressed, well groomed, and most certainly _not_ suffering from a hangover.

"Baron du Vallon," the leader said. "I did not expect –"

"Obviously. Why do you speak to my fiancée with such insolence? She informed you that I was not in the house. What right do you have to question her?"

"I was unaware of her station," the man explained. "I assumed she was a servant."

"A servant wearing silk and pearls?" Porthos retorted. "I think not."

"I assure you, it was an error. Please accept my humble apologies."

"Do not apologize to me, you fool! To her!"

With a sigh, the man turned to face Angelina. "My apologies, my lady," he said as if the words were difficult to speak.

"That is better," Porthos said. "Now, what is it you want from me?"

"We request permission to search your property."

"Search my property? For what?"

"That is not your concern, Monsieur."

"Not my concern?" Porthos repeated. "I beg to differ. Anything that occurs on my property _is_ my concern, and I will not grant permission to strangers to enter my land unless I know exactly what it is they are doing."

The men exchanged uneasy glances, clearly uncomfortable with revealing the details of their search, but by law they could not trespass on the baron's property without his authority. "We work for Monsieur LaCroix," The leader explained. "We are searching for something that he has lost, but he wishes to be discreet in its recovery."

"Something he has lost?" Porthos asked in a mocking tone, his eyes dancing with sudden amusement. "Indeed! Two years ago, three head of prime beef cattle wandered from my land onto LaCroix's. When I sought to reclaim them, LaCroix informed me that since they were on his land, they must be part of his property. Therefore, if whatever he is searching for is on _my_ land, then it is now a part of _my_ property. Good day to you gentlemen." He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "Now, depart from my land immediately and do not let me catch you here again, or it is within my rights to shoot you."

Again, the three men looked at one another with uncertainty. The blustering ex-Musketeer was presenting an obstacle that they had not anticipated. LaCroix had assured them that the baron would present no difficulty, as he would likely be too drunk or too hung over to even comprehend what was going on. Clearly, there had been a drastic change in him.

After a hesitation, one of them chose his words carefully as he explained, "Very well, my lord. We are looking for two young people, one of whom has wronged Monsieur LaCroix. He has stolen something of great value, and he wishes to have it back. The young man has an injured leg, so they cannot have gone far. They may be avoiding the roads by traveling across the local estates. We wish only to find them and take them back to LaCroix."

Porthos stroked his mustache, as if considering the man's request. "My friend and I have just returned from a ride around the property. Had anyone been trespassing, we would have seen them."

"They may be in hiding."

"Or they may have traveled in another direction or have already departed from the area." After another pause, during which he pretended to mull over their request, he said, "No, it is within my right to deny you access to my property. However, if I see these people you seek I will apprehend them and return them to LaCroix. That is the most I will do for him."

The men exchanged glances again, but they knew it would do no good to argue. "Very well, then. I will inform Monsieur LaCroix. You will likely be hearing from him."

"You do that. And do not let me catch you on my land again," he warned.

Nudging their horses around the two friends, they cantered up the lane toward the main entrance.

Porthos watched the drifting cloud of dust kicked up by the horses' hooves, and smiled, happily. "After years of being the local laughing stock, I do believe I am well on the road to earning respect in this community."

"Indeed you are, my friend," D'Artagnan agreed.

"It is a good feeling!" Porthos said, savoring the moment.

D'Artagnan slapped his friend on the shoulder with great affection. "Come; let us get these horses put away. It is time for my wife and me to return to the palace."

* * *

_**A/N:** For those wondering about Louis, he will be included in all remaining chapters. There should be about four more chapters which will tie up all loose ends._


	35. Chapter Thirty Five

Chapter Thirty Five

Louis was dreaming. Pleasant images of the king on a fiery steed drifted through his subconscious mind.

_He was riding at the hunt, bringing down many game animals while crowds of his loyal subjects cheered in admiration as he controlled his prancing, snorting white stallion with an experienced hand. Christine stood among them, her face shining with pride while he demonstrated his dazzling skills at horsemanship and his prowess as a hunter. Roe deer, red deer, wild boars, and pheasants lay in a row on the grass, all victims of his exceptional proficiency. He basked in their ovation, making his horse rear in a grand performance of flair and competence._

_But then the dream began to change. A figure appeared before the people; a man who looked identical to him. The people were confused, and began turning away from the king to follow this intruder. They were calling him their king. Louis shouted to them, "Do not follow him! I am your king!" But the people did not listen._

"_You are an imposter!" they shouted._

"_No! I am the king!"_

_They began throwing rotten food at him, soiling his fine clothing with foul smelling debris. "Fine food is served at your table while you feed us nothing but spoiled garbage!" they taunted._

_A sinister, shadowy figure suddenly materialized before him. Spooked by the spectral image, his fine steed reared high in the air and deposited him on the ground. He watched in disbelief as it trotted willingly to the man the people were now hailing as king, submitting itself to his authority. Even his horse had betrayed him!_

"_You are a murderer!" the ghostly image accused._

_Sitting there in the grass, Louis stared up at the deceased man, his eyes wide with horror. It was Pierre, holding his severed head in his hand._

_Slowly, with the other hand, Pierre pointed a condemning finger at him, and the mouth on the severed head spoke, "You had me executed to take the blame for your reckless decisions. You are to blame for the discontent of the people. The people no longer follow you. You do not deserve to be king! We now follow your brother."_

"_No!" Louis screamed. "Do not follow him! I am the rightful king!"_

_The people were moving toward him now, holding a terrible iron mask which they intended to place upon his head. He began backing away, but they advanced quickly. Someone grabbed him from behind, and he whirled around to find his father, Louis XIII, glaring at him in disgust._

"_You abused your authority. You sent your brother to live in the horror of the iron mask. You are no longer my son!"_

"_Father, help me!"_

_But the old king did not help him. He held him firmly in position while the people placed the mask on his head, and latched it closed._

"_No!"_

Louis jerked awake as the remnants of his agonized shout echoed chillingly along the long, shadowy corridors. He was not safely in his own bed at the palace as he had hoped, but living a portion of the nightmare from which he had just awakened. Frantically, he grasped the iron mask and wrenched his body back and forth, attempting to pull it from his head. He knew it was a useless endeavor, but panic controlled his actions. Desperately, his fingers tugged at the lock on the back of it, then slid down to the opening for his neck, fumbling for some weakness in the construction.

Finding none, he sank back down on his elbows, gasping for air as he attempted to orient himself with his surroundings. His body was drenched with sweat and trembling violently. Through the eye slits in the heavy mask that seemed to weight down his head, he saw the stone walls of his cell. Now that his frenzied struggles had ceased, it became quiet inside the stone chamber except for the dripping of water somewhere nearby. Someone on a floor above him must have knocked over a water bucket, and it was seeping down through imperfections in the floor.

Swinging his legs over the edge of the cot, he leaned over and rested his head in his hands, feeling the cold iron against his sweating palms. His heart was pounding wildly in his chest in the aftermath of the dream and his desperate attempt to free himself from the confines of the mask. The nightmares were coming more and more frequently now, but none were as devastating as the one he was living; the one from which he could not escape with wakefulness.

The panel that covered a small window in the solid door slid open, and he raised his head to look toward it, recognizing the pair of gray eyes that peered in at him. It was the deaf-mute who had been assigned the task of guarding him. He did not even know the man's name, for he could neither speak nor write, and no one else was allowed in this section of the prison block. Their eyes met briefly, then the deaf-mute pushed a tin plate through the opening.

Louis got up and stumbled toward the door to take it. He hated the tasteless dry bread and the tough cuts of meat, but his stomach rumbled with anticipation of the food. When he took the plate, the guard made a guttural sound. Louis had learned that the sound meant "water", so he fetched his mug from the table and held it against the window. Through the opening, the mute poured water into it from a pitcher, spilling much of it down the inside of the door. Then the pitcher was withdrawn and the window panel was closed and latched once again.

Louis placed the mug and the plate on the small wooden table, and took several bites of it while still standing. D'Artagnan had indicated that he should be well fed, but apparently the guards had a different definition of that term than had been intended. He did not know what the other prisoners were fed, but he could not imagine that it could be any worse than the fatty cuts of meat that were always either over cooked or undercooked and the dry stale bread that were his sustenance. The only thing that was good was the water. It was always cold from the well and sparkling clean, something he knew was not provided to anyone except him. He took a long drink, allowing the cold water to sooth his throat.

He sat down at the table, and stared at the food in revulsion. His head was throbbing. The weight of the mask bearing down on his neck and the incessant hunger that was never satisfied had generated frequent headaches, as it had done every day since he had been in this horrible place, and for which there was no relief.

How long had he been in this wretched place? A small block of sunlight managed to penetrate the narrow ventilation shaft, indicating that it was daylight, but with nothing with which to occupy his hours, one day blended into the next, and he was unable to keep track of time. Had it been dark when he had fallen asleep, or had he just awakened from a daytime nap? He could not remember. The traitors who had placed him here had promised that his stay in the Bastille would be short; that he would soon be removed to a house where he might live more comfortably. They had clearly lied to him.

His hand clenched into a fist and heaved a deep shuddering sigh. His physical strength was beginning to fail, and he did not believe he could go on much longer.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

With his head bowed and eyes fixed upon the pattern of the floor tiles and his hands clasped behind his back, Philippe paced back and forth in front of the massive doors in the huge, echoing entry hall. His footsteps seemed loud on the tiled floors as he walked, and he was very much aware of the uneasy glances that were cast his direction by the servants as they scrubbed the windows, dusted the picture frames, and polished the bric-a-brac.

He paused occasionally to observe them, noticing how nervous they were to be working in his presence, even though he had ordered them to continue with what they were doing. He knew that Louis had most likely sent them scurrying whenever he was in a room in which they were working, hence the anxious looks, but he had no time to think about his gaffe. His parents were due any moment.

He was totally unaware of the fact that it was his eagerness to see his mother that was as big of a surprise to the servants as his willingness to let them continue working in his presence. They could only wonder at the changes in the king, but none were disposed to question them. It was touching to see his apparently new-found adoration for the queen mother, and he was certainly more pleasant to work for. When a young maiden dropped a dust pan on the floor, the king had whirled to face her in alarm, but the expected tirade never came. He had simply gestured for her to continue, and resumed his pacing.

Claude abruptly stepped into the entry hall. "The coach is here, your majesty."

Philippe's head came up, and he hurried through the door which the advisor held open for him. Pausing on the top step, he looked toward the gate as the coach, pulled by four sleek bay horses, made its way up the lane toward the palace. D'Artagnan, Athos, and Porthos rode behind the coach.

The young king trotted down the steps, careful to maintain an air of dignity, and waited at the bottom until the coach drew to a stop. A footman stepped forward to open the coach door for her.

With one arm hooked regally behind his back, Philippe offered the other hand to his mother. With a radiant smile, she slipped her dainty hand delicately into his and stepped from the coach.

She paused to look up at the huge, majestic palace. "It is good to be home."

"Did you have a nice trip, Mother?" Philippe asked, eagerly as he placed her hand on his arm to escort her into the structure. "You look wonderful! I trust you had a nice time and that you were well taken care of."

"I had a wonderful time, and yes I was well cared for. I am so pleased that you convinced me to take this journey. I know you will be relieved to hear that I intend to take more of them."

"That is wonderful news," he replied as they started up the steps. "You must tell me all about it."

"I am very tired right now and wish to rest, but I would like to dine with you in private this evening. I will tell you all about it then."

"I will order our meals brought to my room."

Behind them, the coach moved away and D'Artagnan, Athos, and Porthos's horses were lead away by attendants, and the three men followed them up the steps. Aramis was not present.

After escorting his mother to her chambers, Philippe went to his office where he knew his father and friends would be waiting. When he entered, he found Porthos sitting in one of the comfortable chairs sampling a bowl of fruit. Athos stood quietly at the window. D'Artagnan moved toward him with a smile.

"Welcome back, Father," Philippe said as they embraced. "I trust you enjoyed your holiday."

"Very much. I wish you could have shared it with us."

"Where is Aramis?" Porthos asked, his voice muffled from the food in his mouth. "I thought he would accompany us on the escort back to the palace."

"He has been very busy with the king's business," Philippe replied. "But I will tell you all about that later."

"Very well," D'Artagnan said. "Now, I have urgent news that I must share with you. You should be expecting a visit soon from Regnault LaCroix."

"LaCroix?" Philippe asked, curiously. "Why would he be coming here?"

"Because of –"

A knock at the door interrupted D'Artagnan's explanation, and Philippe called, "Enter."

A guard opened the door, and announced, "Pardon the interruption, your majesty, but Monsieur LaCroix wishes an immediate word with you. He says it is urgent."

Philippe glanced apprehensively at Athos and D'Artagnan. Even though LaCroix was expected to attend any future balls that the king might host, he had never expected to see LaCroix in any other capacity. D'Artagnan clearly had been expecting just such a visit, but of course he said nothing in front of the guard. "Show him in," Philippe instructed.

The guard bowed and stepped outside the door.

"I had hoped I would have time to better explain before he arrived," D'Artagnan said quietly, but there was no time to do so now, for a moment later, LaCrois entered the room with an expression that was a curious blend of suppressed rage and anxiety, an indication that something serious had occurred.

"Sire," he began as he removed his plumed hat and bowed deeply before the king.

"LaCroix," Philippe said. "I was not expecting you. Has something happened?"

"Indeed it has, sire. Indeed it has." He rose up again, and fumbled with his hat in apparent distress, as if uncertain how to proceed. His eyes darted to Athos, whose face remained expressionless, then to D'Artagnan, who looked equally impassive, then his eyes narrowed briefly as he observed Porthos. Clearly, he was not happy to discuss this matter in front of the neighbor for whom he had little respect.

"Your expression reveals that this matter is quite serious," Philippe prompted.

"I fear it is, your majesty," he said, returning his attention to his monarch. "It is with great regret that inform you that . . . well, sire, there is no easy way to say this. Your valet, Francois." He paused, nervously, shifting from one foot to the other, and his eyes darted around the room again, meeting each man in turn. He would have preferred a private audience with the king, but it seemed that his council had no intention of leaving. Indeed, they were listening with rapt attention to the sordid tale of his humiliation. "Well, sire, it seems he ran off with my oldest daughter, Isabelle."

Philippe's eyes widened, and Athos's eyebrows lifted with amusement as he cast a quick glance at D'Artagnan, who gave a barely perceptible nod of verification.

Porthos, still enjoying the game, looked up from the bowl of fruit with great amusement. "So, _that_ is what your riders would not tell me," he said. "Your daughter and the king's valet! I never would have suspected!"

LaCroix's face reddened. "They informed me that you denied permission to search your property."

"You are the one who laid down the rules, Monsieur, when you declined to return my cattle that strayed onto your land. And your men refused to tell me what it was they were searching for. Their lame explanations were insufficient to satisfy my concerns that they were undertaking a righteous search. However, I did inform them that I had just returned from riding my property, and encountered nothing of which you need concern yourself."

LaCroix looked at Porthos for a long moment, noticing the distinct changes in him since the last time he had encountered the former Musketeer. He well remembered the incident when the former Musketeer had ridden to his manor house in a drunken stupor, demanding the return of his cattle. He had been swaying in the saddle so badly that he feared the man would topple to the ground. The bright-eyed, sober man who sat before him was greatly changed from the one he had encountered that day.

"Is this true?" Philippe asked, curiously. "Did you steal the baron's cattle?"

LaCroix's face darkened even more at the accusation of theft, and he shrugged. "Steal is a harsh word, your majesty. It was but a simple misunderstanding."

"There was no misunderstanding on my part," Porthos said. "My cattle escaped their confinement and wandered onto your land, and you refused to return them. You may call it what you will, but the cattle belonged to me and you kept them for yourself." His point made, he waved the subject away. "But that is in the past. I will forgive you. Especially since your troubles appear to be greater than mine. Had your men been honest with me today, I might have considered your request for the search. As it was, I had no way of knowing what it was they wanted to do on my property."

"You should have trusted that I would not send men to your land without just cause!"

"Trust? You speak of trust when you steal my cattle?"

During this rather heated exchange between the two neighbors, Philippe used the opportunity to glance at D'Artagnan, wishing desperately that he had had time to confer with him before being confronted with this difficulty. "Gentlemen, please. May we return to the matter at hand?"

Both men ceased their argument, and returned their attention to the king. "My apologies, Sire," LaCroix said quickly.

"Please explain this to me," Philippe requested. "My messengers have reported that Francois could barely walk; that there might be some kind of permanent damage to the leg."

"Clearly a falsehood, your majesty. A deliberate lie for the purpose of perpetrating the seduction of my innocent daughter! Apparently he was stalling until he had sufficiently recovered enough to convince her to slip away in the night with him! I am most embarrassed and aggrieved by this, your majesty. My noble daughter, running off in the night with a _servant!_ Oh! The shame of it! How will I ever live down this scandal? My poor wife has not stopped weeping all morning at this disgrace. I sent out several groups of riders in an attempt to find them and bring my daughter back, but I fear it is a futile attempt. We have no clue as to the direction taken by them."

Philippe nodded his agreement, trying to cover the fact that he was reluctant to comment. He knew he must act decisively, but this was a new situation for him to consider and he had no idea how to handle it. "Yes, it will likely be difficult to capture them, and they are almost certainly married by now."

A painful sound emerged from LaCroix's throat, as if the thought of having a servant for a son-in-law was too much to bear. "If he dares show his face on my property again after sullying my daughter's reputation, I will shoot him on sight, the scoundrel!"

"You would execute the king's valet?" Philippe asked quietly, surprised by the brazen words the other man had just spoken. Even inexperienced as he was, he knew that this would be a serious offense, for only the king himself could issue such an order. He caught an approving glance from Athos, and knew that he had reacted appropriately.

LaCroix's face paled considerably, realizing that his hasty words had overstepped his bounds. His lips twitched nervously for a moment before he recovered his voice. "Please forgive me, your majesty. I am terribly upset by this. My daughter is gone, taken away in the middle of the night by a guest in my home!" Restlessly, he paced to the window, but had no interest of the activity on the lawn. "Oh, I suppose I should have seen this coming. I saw the way Isabelle looked at him on more than one occasion, looks that were highly inappropriate from someone of her rank. But I never imagined that they would sneak away like that! They even stole the money that was part of her dowry, a sizable sum, I might add. I had no idea that she was even aware of its location. My daughter is young and innocent. She cannot possibly understand the seriousness of what she has done."

"Sounds to me like your daughter knows a great deal more than you give her credit for," Porthos spoke up again, his words needling the greatly distressed man.

"Nevertheless, it is done," Philippe said patiently. "You have my deepest sympathy in this matter and I regret that my valet, whom I have trusted for some time now, has caused your family such grief."

"Her fiancé is going to be most aggrieved at this," he lamented, mournfully. "We had almost completed the negotiations between our families. How will I ever explain this to them?"

Philippe leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin, stalling for time as he contemplated how a king might react to something like this. Louis, he knew, would be far more understanding of LaCroix's situation than he was, but he was unable to feel any outrage for someone to marry out of his or her class. However, he must appear sympathetic, at the very least. "I see your problem," he agreed. "Tell me; was she not in favor of this marriage that you were arranging? Is she rebelling against your selection of a husband?"

"She claimed she did not like the man, but what difference does that make? Love is a foolish enterprise! A union between them would have allied us with one of the wealthiest families in France."

"That must be a terrible disappointment to you. What is it that you would expect should they be found?"

LaCroix looked astonished that the king would even ask such a question. "Why, I expect what any man in my position would expect. I would have this marriage annulled immediately, and ask you to punish this young man severely for tarnishing my daughter's reputation!"

Philippe hesitated. LaCroix clearly expected retribution for the behavior of the king's valet. Should he offer compensation? Should he apologize? No, neither sounded like something that Louis would do. He hoped he did not look as uncertain as he suddenly felt.

D'Artagnan had been watching and listening carefully and realized that his son, still inexperienced in the art of governing a country and dealing with individual circumstances such as this, was beginning to stumble. Stepping forward, he decided it was time to offer his guidance. "Sire, may I speak?"

"Of course," Philippe said, gratitude washing through him at his father's offer.

"If I may respectfully point out, the damage in this situation may be irreparable," the captain said, calmly. "We can, of course, send out riders to assist your search. I believe Francois has family in Guienne, and it is possible that he may have taken your daughter there. But even if you had the marriage annulled, her fiancé is likely to consider her unmarriageable now. I fear there is nothing that can be done about that."

LaCroix groaned, looking very grieved. "Oh, dear. This is the most scandalous thing to happen in my family's history."

"Perhaps it is better to simply do nothing."

"Nothing!" LaCroix snapped, angrily. "It is my daughter of whom we are speaking, sir! Not to mention the reputation of one of France's most noble families! You have no experience in dealing with matters such as this."

"This is true," D'Artagnan admitted without any apparent resentment. "However, I was under the impression that you wish to suffer as little disgrace to your family as possible. Bringing this into the open will only publicize the scandal, and may have long term ramifications for your other daughters. The other noble families of France may look unfavorably upon this incident."

LaCroix shifted uncomfortably and briefly lowered his gaze, considering the Musketeer's words. Sadly, it was true. Scandals typically had long lives, and Isabelle's actions may have made it impossible for her younger sisters to find suitable husbands among the noble families.

"He's right," Athos agreed, his quiet, serious voice drawing the attention of everyone in the room. He had been listening quietly to the conversation, and knew from D'Artagnan's demeanor and his choice of words that for some reason, he did not want LaCrois going after the young couple. "You know who I am, Monsieur LaCroix," he added, looking directly at the nobleman.

"Comte de la Fère," LaCroix said with a trace of respect in his voice. "What would you suggest?"

"I would suggest quietly breaking the engagement to her former fiancé without offering details of the truth. Tell them she has taken ill and has gone to another location to improve her health, and since you cannot guarantee her return, you will release the young man from his obligation. It might also be a good idea to offer some modest form of restitution."

"Yes, yes, I may do that," LaCroix agreed. "That is a good suggestion. She has taken leave of her senses, which could be construed as an illness. But I would still like to flail the hide from that boy's back for what he has done to my family!"

"A useless endeavor, Monsieur," D'Artagnan said, patiently. "It will cost you much in the way of hiring men to go after her, and their search is likely to turn up nothing. As you pointed out, they could have taken any direction."

Athos was clearly thinking of his own lost child, for he stepped forward in an attempt to appeal to the other man's affection for his child. "Monsieur LaCroix, I urge you to think on this matter before you act in haste. I know you are severely disillusioned with your daughter right now, but I also know that you love her. There is nothing more precious to a man than his children. They are a source of endless joy and many challenges, but I do believe that their happiness must count for something."

"Are you saying that I should forgive this terrible mistake she has made?" he asked, incredulously. "She has ruined her life! She has disgraced her family, and brought grief to her mother!"

"All these things are true," Athos agreed. "But your child is still alive. Be grateful for that. Having lost my own son, I am pleased to say that I have no regrets with his life. Perhaps I indulged him more often than I should have, but his joy was precious to me. Hold that joy in your heart, and perhaps one day things can be made right between you again. Harsh words and actions can never be taken back."

LaCroix looked embarrassed. "I heard about the loss of your son. They say he died honorably in the service."

Athos dipped his head slightly in an affirmative nod.

"I do not understand why you chose to give up your title and land, but I respect the noble that you once were. I will consider your words before I decide what course of action to take in resolving this matter." He turned back to the king. "Sire, I will take your leave, now."

Philippe gave a dismissive nod, and LaCroix made his exit, pulling the door closed behind him.

As soon as he had gone, Athos turned to D'Artagnan. "How long have you known about this?" he asked.

"Not long, actually. Only a few hours. I came across the young couple this morning when Anne and I took a ride around Porthos's property. They had been walking all morning, and were hiding in a copse of trees trying to rest. Francois's leg was about to give out on him, so Porthos gave them horses and supplies."

Athos stared at him for several long moments, surprised by what his friends had done, then suddenly burst out laughing; the first time anyone had heard him laugh since the news of Raoul's death. "I would love to have seen LaCroix's face when he realized his daughter had run off with the king's valet!"

D'Artagnan's laughter joined that of his friend. "That is exactly what Porthos said."

Porthos looked up from his basket of fruit. "I did indeed."

"I had hoped to discuss this matter at length before he arrived so that we might organize a plan, but I did not expect him quite so soon." He placed an affectionate hand on his son's shoulder. "However, in spite of going into this blind you did quite well, Philippe."

"I made a few mistakes," Philippe admitted. "Like when I asked him what he would expect if they were caught. I was trying to stall for time, but when I saw his surprised expression I knew that Louis would never have asked such a thing."

"Even so, you handled yourself very well, Philippe," Athos praised.

"I do not blame the girl for seeking a more fulfilling life than the one she would have with that noble her father selected for her," Porthos said. "Better that she live in poverty with the man she loves than in misery with a man she despises."

"Did he really steal your cattle?" Philippe asked.

"He did. Of course, he called it something else. Confiscation was the word he used, I believe. Amounts to the same thing, though. I tried to be a good neighbor, but he never did like me."

"I do not think LaCroix likes many people, so I would not take it personal," D'Artagnan smiled. "But now, I am going to retire to my room for a while. Gentlemen, if you will excuse me?"

Leaving the office, D'Artagnan made his way down the long corridors toward his bedchamber. Strictly out of habit, he found himself standing at the doorway to his old chamber, silently observing how different it looked without the bed and his personal items. A long work table stood in the alcove where his bed had once been. His desk still stood in its place, but Philippe had redecorated the room with military accoutrements and storage cabinets in which to file his paperwork. After one last lingering gaze at the window from which he had watched Anne as she made her way to and from the chapel, he retraced his steps back up the corridor to his new room, and stepped inside it.

It was barely recognizable as the room he had been shown by Philippe weeks earlier. A bed, much larger than his old one, stood in the far corner with its bed curtains open. A wardrobe stood near it, and a small square wooden table stood against the near wall with three chairs under it. It was easy to guess that Philippe was intending that the three of them should dine together on occasion. A nice sitting area was positioned near the window, with comfortable chairs and a small table with a reading lamp. There were now books on the shelves of the bookcase. Framed paintings were hung on the walls, all of them scenery and horses. It was more personal space than he had ever known in his life, and certainly the richest in appearance. So rich, in fact, that he felt out of place.

Turning, he pushed the door closed behind him. A slide bolt had been installed for security, and he tested it by pushing into the lock position. It seemed that Philippe had thought of everything to insure total privacy. As he turned back into the room, he saw the bookcase door open, and Anne stepped into the room.

"Welcome home, my husband," she said.

Any misgivings he might have had about the richly decorated chamber melted away when he saw her, for his union with her was the room's purpose. Nothing else mattered. Moving to her, he drew her into his arms for a long, leisurely kiss.

When they separated, he gazed adoringly into her eyes. "I cannot believe that we can be together like this inside the palace walls with no fear of discovery."

"It is what I have always dreamed."

He gestured to the room. "See what Philippe has done with the chamber? I would say he has outdone himself."

"It is better than I had even imagined," she said approvingly.

"Then you are pleased?" asked a young man's voice.

They whirled, startled, and found Philippe standing at the bookcase door.

He was smiling. "From now on I will knock before entering, but the door was open and I heard you talking, so I knew it was probably safe to enter. Are you pleased with the room?"

"Very pleased," D'Artagnan replied. "This is the most wonderful gift I have ever been given."

"It is the least I could do for you after all you have given me. However, I have one more that is even better, a wedding gift for both of you." He paused dramatically, then said, "The renovations on the house are complete."

The expression that crossed the faces of his parents was worth any expense incurred in the renovations. Anne drew her breath in sharply and clutched at D'Artagnan's arm. "It is finished?" she asked, as if uncertain that she had heard correctly.

Philippe nodded, smiling with the pleasure of someone who has given an extraordinary gift that has been received with much joy. "It is finished, Mother. It is ready for him to move in immediately."

"But how?" D'Artagnan asked. "I was under the impression that it would take weeks of additional work to complete."

"I told Aramis to offer generous bonuses to the workers if they could have the house ready for Louis this week. They have been working in shifts, day and night, to complete the work, and Aramis has been staying in one of the bedrooms there to oversee everything. He just came by shortly before you arrived. I wanted to tell you both together."

Anne clutched her husband's arm with one hand, her other hand pressed over her bosom as tears of joy sprang to her eyes. "Oh, Philippe! You have made me very happy!" she exclaimed. She moved into her son's arms for a heartfelt embrace. "Every day that he has been confined in the mask has been a shadow in the back of my mind." She drew back and lovingly caressed his smooth cheeks with her soft hands. "I love you so much, my son."

"Knowing that my other son will soon be out of the Bastille is the most wonderful gift I could have imagined," D'Artagnan agreed, stepping into the embrace with his wife and younger son. "You have made me very happy. Both of us."

"I only wish I had thought of it sooner," Philippe said as they broke their embrace. "No one who has not experienced the mask can begin to understand how it feels to be locked inside it. It was simply taking too long, and I decided that the only way to speed things up was to have them work in shifts."

"How did Aramis respond to that?" D'Artagnan asked, curiously.

"He was not pleased, at first," Philippe admitted. "You know how Aramis likes to be the one in charge, but after a few days he had to admit that it was a good idea. The question now is how shall we handle the transfer?"

"I would like to be a part of it myself, but I am perhaps too close to the prisoner to create the illusion of indifference. Aramis will want to see the exchange of power through to the end, so he will wish to be a part of it. And Porthos should go along to help keep Louis in line. I will prepare a release order for you to sign. Aramis will present it to the guard at the Bastille."

"When can it be done?" Anne asked, eagerly.

"I see no reason why it should not be done tonight. I would suggest it be done after midnight, though. The fewer eyes who witness the transfer, the better."

"Tonight," Anne whispered with great relief. "Tonight, my son will be delivered from his suffering."

"Is Porthos still in the palace?" he inquired.

"Yes. I left him and Athos in the office."

"Tell him what his mission will be tonight while I prepare the written orders for the Bastille guard. And send for Aramis. He will need to have the staff in place."

"The staff is there," Philippe told him. "Aramis told them that we would be wanting to move Louis as soon as possible, and that tonight would be a probability. We also sent over a new wardrobe to replace the rags he was wearing in the Bastille."

"Excellent."

"I will go speak to Porthos right now, and then I will summon Aramis."

Philippe returned to the secret corridor and made his way back to the office, while D'Artagnan took his wife in his arms. "Tonight, my love. Tonight our son will be removed from that terrible place."


	36. Chapter Thirty Six

Chapter Thirty Six

Carrying a tin lantern in one hand and moving with a swift gait, eager to complete this mission, Aramis walked up to the heavy door of the Bastille and with the other hand, grasped the huge knocker and banged it several times. The sound resonated chillingly inside that miserable place before finally fading away.

It was well after midnight. Most of the people of Paris were asleep in their beds, and therefore completely unaware of the priest's covert operation. Standing beside him, carrying several lengths of chains, Porthos glanced over his shoulder, verifying that no one was nearby to witness the event that was about to occur. Not that he was particularly worried, for he was a formidable opponent, but during this mission, total secrecy was desirable.

"Do they not have guards on duty all night?" Aramis asked impatiently, feeling very conspicuous in the moonlight. Grasping the knocker, he banged again, more loudly this time.

After considerable time, they heard the bolt being unlatched and the door swung open to reveal a harsh-eyed, grizzled-faced guard. "I heard you the first time," he grumbled, irritably. "Give me time to get here." His gaze worked its up and down the well-dressed visitors, observing that both appeared to be men of status. "Who are you and what do you want?"

Aramis presented him with the document, but did not offer his or Porthos's names. "These orders come directly from the king. We have been instructed by his majesty to remove the prisoner listed on the document."

The man reached for the document and turned it over to verify the king's personal seal. Recognizing it as authentic, he broke the seal, unfolded it, and scanned the orders. "This is the prisoner in the tower room. The one no one is supposed to see."

"The very same," Aramis answered, brusquely. "Now, if you don't mind, we are in a bit of a hurry. We have a long ride ahead of us, and the hour is quite late."

"Yes, all right."

The guard stepped back, allowing the two men to enter. "Seems a bit odd, if you ask me," the man said as they stepped past him. He closed the door behind them and bolted it.

"What seems odd?" Aramis asked. "Moving him in the middle of the night? Political prisoners are often transferred in the dark. It is safer for everyone."

"No, not that. No one except that deaf mute is allowed to see him. We are all curious about that. He must be an important prisoner to be guarded with so much secrecy. The captain on duty during the day was here when the prisoner arrived, but he has said nothing to no one about who he is. He doesn't even have a name; he's always referred to by a number too long to remember."

"That is how it was ordered," Aramis told him. "The orders come directly from the king, and that is as much as any of us needs to know. I am here to carry out my orders, as should you," he added, meaningfully.

"Very well. Want I should go up with you?" he asked, hoping to see this mysteriously secret prisoner. "I see you have shackles. You may need help securing them."

"That will not be necessary," Aramis replied. "As the king's order states, you are to provide me with the key. We will secure the prisoner, and then we will soon be out of here. You may return to what you were doing."

"Very well." The disappointment in the man's voice was audible, but he made no further comment as he selected the key and offered it to the priest.

"Thank you. I will return this shortly."

The guard watched in silence as the two men proceeded up the narrow, winding stairs to the floor in which the mysterious prisoner was housed.

"Which cell?" Porthos asked as they hurried down the corridor.

"The tower room. This way."

The two men proceeded quietly down the corridor, passing many cells in which prisoners were sleeping on straw covered floors. The stench was almost overpowering, a disgusting mixture of human waste, sweat, moldy straw, stagnant water, and unwashed bodies.

"The smell is enough to gag a sow!" Porthos muttered.

An iron gate blocked entrance to the tower, and Aramis inserted a key into the lock. The hinges were rusty and squealed noisily as he pulled it open. Several of the men farther down the block stirred in the sleep, others lifted their heads to peer toward the lantern light at the end of the corridor. Presuming it to be one of the guards, they lay back down in an attempt to capture the oblivion of sleep, the only time they actually felt free from the misery of the prison.

The two men passed through the gate, then Porthos pulled it closed behind them, and they moved toward the tower room in which Louis was being kept.

When they reached it, Aramis slid back the panel that covered the window and peered inside, searching for the deposed king. Louis was lying on the cot against the far corner, but he raised his head and looked toward the door when he heard the panel open.

Realizing it was not the deaf mute, he asked, "Who is there?"

"It is I. Aramis."

"Aramis?"

"We're taking you out of here."

_At last!_ Hope surged as Louis sat up abruptly, swinging his legs off the cot as he started to rise.

"Stay there on the cot," the priest instructed as he inserted the key in the lock and opened the door.

Louis remained seated on the bunk as instructed, but his heart was pounding eagerly in anticipation of getting out of that terrible place. "I thought perhaps you had lied about the Bastille being only temporary."

"I am a man of my word," Aramis told him. "As is D'Artagnan. You should know that."

"But it has been so long. I do not think I could have held out much longer without going completely mad."

"We are actually here in good time. It has only been five weeks."

Louis fell silent, thinking about that, and if they had been able to see his face they would have seen the astonishment there. "Five weeks?" he asked quietly, his voice weak with disbelief. "It seemed like so much longer."

Aramis nodded, sympathetically. "I know." He moved toward the prisoner and held up the lantern to better view him. The sight of the mask still made him shudder with revulsion. "I loathe doing it, but we must follow protocol. It will be necessary to place you in irons before taking you out of here."

Looking beyond the priest, Louis saw Porthos standing there holding wrist and leg shackles. A moment of panic ensued. He had never in his life been placed in chains! When they had brought him to the Bastille, his hands had been tied with a rope, but he had not suffered the indignity of chains and shackles. For a brief moment, he considered bolting for the open door, then remembered the mask. Even if he managed to escape, he had no method by which to free himself from it. He was totally dependent upon them to unlock it.

With a deep sigh, resigned to his dependency upon them, he asked, "Is that truly necessary? You know I will not attempt to escape as long as I am in the mask, for I have no way to remove it."

Aramis replied, "Regrettably, the chains are necessary. By your own orders, prisoners are to be transferred with chains and shackles. They will come off once we reach our destination, as will the mask. Hold on to that thought. Your ordeal will be over soon."

The priest's voice was kind, almost gentle, and feeling reassured by it Louis nodded his acceptance.

Porthos knelt down in front of him and placed the shackles around his ankles while Aramis held the lantern close so that he could see. When that was completed, Louis held out his hands and allowed the wrist irons to be secured. "They are not too tight, are they?" Porthos asked, genuinely concerned about the comfort of D'Artagnan's son.

Louis shook his head. "No. May we just go?"

Taking his arm, Porthos helped him to stand, then placed a cloak around his shoulders and pulled up the hood to cover the mask. "Just like when we first arrived," he said. "We do not want people talking about the mask and what it conceals, so the fewer people who see it, the better."

Louis nodded and started toward the door, but the priest placed a restraining hand on his shoulder, stopping him

"One last thing before we leave," Aramis cautioned. "There are a few guards on duty, one inside the main level and a uniformed patrol at the outer perimeter of the property. They are most curious about you. Keep your head bowed to conceal the mask, and make no attempts to communicate with them, or there will be dire consequences. Is that understood?"

So eager was he to be out of that place, Louis readily agreed. "Yes."

Aramis took one arm and Porthos took the other, and they guided Louis through the door and into the corridor. Once they were through the iron gate, they moved swiftly to the stairs and started down. Louis stumbled once, for his vision was somewhat impaired by the mask, but he was steadied by each of the former Musketeers at his side, and they reached the ground floor without incident.

As soon as they stepped off the stone stairs, Louis bowed his head to conceal the mask as he had been instructed. He was unaccustomed to following orders issued by others, but he had only one thought in his mind, and that was getting away from the Bastille and out of the mask. At that moment, it was the only thing that mattered.

The guard watched carefully as they guided the prisoner toward the door, longing to see beneath the cloak, to see for himself why the man's identity was such a carefully guarded secret, but a warning look and a raised hand from Aramis advised him to keep his distance. Porthos only looked at him, but something about the bigger of the two men left the guard with the distinct impression that he would thoroughly thumped on if he got too near.

Once they were out the door, the guard watched as they ushered the prisoner into a waiting coach. From the door to the coach, Aramis tossed the keys back to him, then climbed into the vehicle and settled in one of the seats. As soon as the door was closed, the driver set the horses in motion, and the coach disappeared into the night.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Seated beside Aramis in the coach, with Porthos directly across from him, Louis gazed out at the streets of Paris as they made their way toward the edge of town. The coach rocked and swayed on the road, and the horses' hooves clopped noisily on the cobblestone paving. He realized that this was probably the last time he would ever see the city. It was a strange feeling to know that he was leaving it forever.

Aramis and Porthos did not converse during the trip. Both were alert and kept their attention riveted upon him. Even when they were looking out the window at the dark landscape or at some other insignificant point inside the coach, he sensed that they were totally attentive to any movement he might make.

Soon, Paris was behind them and they were in the countryside, driving toward the estate home in which he would live out his life. Life as he had once known it had changed forever. There would be no more parties to enjoy, and no more mistresses with whom to pass his time. There would be no more responsibility for the welfare of the country, and no decisions to be made regarding the people of France. Never again would he go on a hunt or even take a leisurely ride through the palace grounds. For the rest of his days, he would be confined, unable to control his own destiny.

A tear spilled from his eye, and he reached up to wipe it away. The chain that was attached to the iron cuff rattled as he moved his hand, emphasizing his prisoner status, and he could not touch his face because of the mask. The tear tickled annoyingly down his cheek, but he had no choice but to tolerate it. As Philippe had been forced to tolerate it.

For the first time, he allowed thoughts of his brother's existence in the mask to enter his mind. How many years had he been forced to endure the discomfort of the heavy iron mask? He was certain it had been at least five or six years since the day he had ordered Aramis to place the contraption on Philippe's head. After five weeks, Louis had found it nearly intolerable; how had Philippe managed to survive for so long?

The iron shackle on one wrist was beginning to chafe, so he turned it with his other hand, seeking a more comfortable position.

Aramis immediately noticed. "Are they causing you discomfort?"

"They are heavy and they are rubbing the skin," he retorted, irritably, the first hint of defiance that he had expressed all evening. "Of course, they are causing discomfort. Why do you bother asking? Why should you care?"

Aramis gazed at him in the flickering light of the coach lantern, knowing that he could never reveal the full truth about why he was attempting to treat the former king with compassion, so he merely said, "Let us just say that it is out of respect for your father that I want you to be reasonably comfortable."

"If you had any respect for my father, you would not be treating his son this way!" Louis countered. "As firstborn, I am the rightful king!"

Again there was a distinguishable pause before Aramis answered. "I do have respect for your father, and I am certain he would want the more capable of his sons to govern the country. I can speak with confidence when I say that your father would never have allowed you to place your brother in the mask, nor would he have approved of the way you abused your office. Now, we will see if your brother can repair the damage you have done. As for the shackles, I apologize for that, but they will remain until you are settled in your chambers."

Frustrated, Louis leaned his shoulder against the side of the coach and gazed out at the dark landscape. He was tired, hungry, and discouraged. Never in his entire life had he been forced to submit to the will of others. Others submitted to him.

Finally, after an indistinguishable amount of time, the coach turned off the main road and proceeded deeper into the countryside on a narrow access road.

"We are nearly there," Aramis announced. "When we arrive, you will have the cloak and hood in place, as there are a few servants on hand. They are likely in bed asleep, but we will use precaution in case one happens to be up. You will have a personal guard who will tend to you needs. His name is Herve. Do not attempt to offer bribes or threats, for it will do you no good. He is being well paid to look after you. Oh, and just so you know, he already knows your identity and he and his wife will be the only people permitted to see your face. A year ago, you ordered his tongue to be cut out for speaking against you, so you might say that you are not his favorite person."

"He hates you," Porthos said, bluntly.

Aramis gave him a look, then agreed, "Porthos may be brusque, but he is correct. Herve is a member of the Jesuit Order, and he totally supportive of Philippe taking control of the crown. He will take great pleasure in seeing you confined, so do not expect him to be sympathetic to your plight. What you have done to him is much worse."

Louis felt his heart lurch with concern. "You are leaving me in the care of a man who hates me? What if he takes it upon himself to harm me?"

"He is under orders not to lay a hand on you. Unless you try to escape, of course."

"Then he may do whatever he wishes with you," Porthos added. He did not add that Herve had been ordered, no matter what, to keep Louis alive, deciding it was better that the deposed king was unaware of that detail.

Ignoring Porthos's remark, Aramis said, "Now, we have some rules that we must go over before we arrive. To make matters easier and less complicated, his wife, Marie, will act as housekeeper, and she will come in weekly to change your bedding and clean up a bit in your rooms. Just so you know, she despises you as much as her husband. You will also have a personal cook, but unlike Herve and Marie, she does not know your identity and will not be permitted to enter your room."

Aramis paused briefly to allow the young man time to respond, but he remained silent. In fact, it seemed that all the fight had gone out of him, and he wondered if his stay in the Bastille had broken him. On the other hand, he knew that Louis was unpredictable, and that they could not let down their guard with him. He might only be pretending to be docile.

He continued, "Inside your dining room, you will find a cupboard against the wall. It has two doors, one on the front and one in the back, which opens through the wall into the corridor beyond. Marie will open the small door that has been cut in the wall and place your tray inside the cupboard. She will then ring a bell to alert you that your meal is ready. You may then open the cupboard on your side and remove your tray. Do not get the idea of attempting to crawl through the door in the cupboard to reach the corridor. The door will be kept securely locked and under Marie's direct supervision. Even though we will remove the iron mask, we have provided a cloth mask which you must wear on certain occasions, such as in the event that Marie is ill and cannot clean your rooms. No one except Herve and his wife must ever see your face. Is that clear?"

Louis stared at him through the eyeholes in the mask, but did not immediately answer. He had been listening to the rules with mounting resentment, and he wished he could strangle the priest with the chains, but a quick glance at Porthos reminded him that the larger ex-Musketeer would be on him in seconds if he made such an attempt.

"Is that clear?" Aramis repeated, more sternly than before.

Reaching forward, Porthos grasped the chain that bound his wrists and gave it a yank. "He asked you a question."

Pain shot through Louis' wrists. "Yes! I understand," he hissed through clenched teeth.

Porthos released him, and Louis rubbed his painful wrists.

"Good," Aramis continued. "You will have unlimited access to the courtyard gardens through a private stairway. You may pass your time either walking there or your may tend to the plants and flowers, if you desire. With the exception of your own windows, we have sealed the shutters on every window which overlooks the courtyard. This will prevent any of the other servants from glancing outside and seeing you there. The wall is much too high for you to go over, so do not even think about that. The door is very narrow, as is the stairway, so that you will not be tempted to carry any of the furniture out in an escape attempt. Do you have any questions?"

"No." After a brief pause, he asked, "What of my mother?"

"She will visit you weekly. If you need to get a message to her, you may write it down and give it to Herve. He will send your message with a courier. You are allowed to correspond only with her, but you may direct a message to either me or D'Artagnan if there is anything you need for your comfort. No one else. I believe that just about covers it. We will deal with other situations as they arrive. Herve will be sending me a weekly report on your conduct, so I would advise that you remain on your best behavior, or you may find yourself back in the Bastille. On your brother's orders, we have taken great care to see to your comfort, which is far more consideration than you gave him. Remember that."

Following the winding road toward the house, the coach was occasionally at an angle where Louis was able to see the huge stone mansion looming against the night sky. Several windows were brightened by candlelight, and once he saw a shadowy figure pass through the light; one of the servants assigned to care for him, he realized. The courtyard that Aramis had spoken of must have been at the rear of the house, for he saw no indication of it or the containing wall. Which meant that his rooms were also at the rear.

The coach pulled up to the front stoop, and Aramis positioned the cloak and the hood on the prisoner before opening the coach door and stepping outside. He and Porthos assisted Louis as he stepped from the coach, moving carefully with the chains on his ankles to avoid tripping and falling. When he was safely on the ground, they moved to the front doors.

The door opened from the inside, and a man and woman stood there. The woman carried a candleholder, and both of them scowled at the deposed king with great contempt.

"This is Herve and his wife, Marie," Aramis said. "They will treat you as well as you treat them."

Louis looked at them through the eye slits, noticing that neither of them appeared disturbed by the sight of the mask. In fact, they seemed quite satisfied that the king had been so thoroughly humiliated.

"The rooms have been prepared, Father," Marie said. "I drew a bath in case he wishes to clean up, and I turned down his bed for him."

"Excellent," Aramis said, approvingly as they entered the foyer. "Did the clothing arrive?"

"They did indeed," she replied. "Herve and I unpacked them and hung them in the wardrobe."

"We took the liberty of ordering new clothes for you," Aramis explained. "I am certain you wish to get out of those rags you are wearing." He gestured toward the staircase. "This way."

Louis followed the priest up the elaborate staircase to the second floor, looking curiously at the décor. It was not comparable to the palace, but it was a huge improvement over the place he had just left. The floors had been suitably polished, the banisters were smooth and shiny, and the paintings and tapestries on the wall were clean and bright.

Aramis saw him looking around, and explained, "It was in a bit of disrepair, since it had not been lived in since your relatives passed away, but my Jesuit friends were able to ready everything for you much faster than I had anticipated. They were paid out of your personal coffers, by the way."

They passed no other servants as they made their way up the stairs and down the corridor to the door which led into his quarters. Aramis opened the door and stood back for the former king to enter first.

Louis paused briefly to look behind him at the long corridor, the paintings on the walls, and the staircase they had just ascended, knowing that he would likely never see them again, then he moved through the door, noticing that it had a sturdy slide bar which would be used to lock him inside. The room was ready for him, with the candles in the wall sconces illuminating the chamber.

The main room was a spacious sitting room decorated with fine furniture, tapestries, and paintings. A window was located directly across from the door, and he was somewhat surprised to find that there were no bars on it. He knew that it would open into the courtyard from which he could not escape, so apparently bars had been deemed unnecessary.

Porthos knelt down in front of him and began removing the shackles while Aramis withdrew a smaller key from his pocket and inserted it into the lock on the mask. A moment later, Louis heard the _"click"_ as the latch opened, and he felt the heaviness lift from his head as the mask was removed.

Cool air caressed his face with blessed relief, and his hands reached up to touch his cheeks. They were covered with the beard that had not been shaved in five weeks. His long hair was a greasy, tangled, matted mess.

He was so overcome with relief that he offered the words that he had rarely spoken his entire life. "Thank you," he said, gratefully.

If Aramis was surprised by the expression of gratitude, he did not show it. "Marie has drawn a bath in your dressing room and she will come in daily to shave you, starting tomorrow morning. I am sorry, but we cannot allow you to have a razor." He gestured to the left. "The dressing room and your bedchamber are around the corner to the left. A dining room has been set up for you to the right, and a library is just beyond that. I had a staircase installed in the dining room that leads down to the courtyard which you may visit at any time, day or night." He picked up a piece of cloth that was lying on a table near the door, and Louis saw that it was a hood with eye-holes in it. "As I explained before, if for any reason Marie is unable to clean your rooms, you must wear this in front of her replacement. Herve will accompany her to make certain that you do."

Louis looked at the hood without touching it, and made no comment.

Aramis continued, "Just so you know, the original plan was for you to wear the cloth mask while outside and for Herve to stand guard over you in the courtyard, which meant that you would only be allowed outside at times which was convenient for him. D'Artagnan came up with the idea of sealing the shutters on this side of the house, which prevents the servants from seeing you from the windows. You have him to thank for this additional freedom of coming and going as you please." He observed the haggard-looking young man carefully in the candlelight, and his expression softened. "You appear rather thin. Have you not been well-fed?"

"It was difficult to eat in the mask," he explained. "The food was not of the quality to which I am accustomed. And there were rats and insects in there."

"I see. Well, you need not worry about that any longer, unless you misbehave. We will make every attempt to keep you comfortable, your majesty, but we must have your cooperation. If you follow directions and conduct yourself properly, you will remain here where you can have a clean living space, good food, and a certain amount of freedom. A wrong move will land you back in the mask and back in the Bastille."

"Think about this, also," Porthos added. "The people are beginning to experience a greater contentment under your brother. Even if you were to escape, you would not be welcomed back on the throne. We would deny everything that has happened, and declare that you were nothing more than an imposter who happens to resemble the king."

"You have thought of everything, haven't you?" Louis asked, bitterly.

"Yes, we have," Aramis replied with great confidence. "We will leave you now, but one of us will check on you from time to time. If you have any wants, merely pull the cord on the wall in your bedchamber. It connects to a bell in Herve's chamber. He will do his best to accommodate your needs." He started for the door, then stopped and turned around again. "One more thing. When you summon Herve, you must stand where he can see you when he opens the door or he will not enter, so do not get the idea of hiding behind it in ambush. Remember, you have much to lose if you misbehave."

With his instructions delivered, Aramis stepped through the door. Porthos gathered up the shackles, and followed. A moment later, Louis heard the lock slide into place.

Left standing alone in the middle of the room, he reached up to touch his head again. It felt incredibly light after carrying around the constant weight of the iron mask, and his peripheral vision was a welcomed change from looking through the restrictive eyeholes.

To acquaint himself with his new surroundings, he picked up one of the candles and moved first to the dining hall. The room was large with a medium sized table, large enough to seat six people, which he regarded with a bit of irony, since he would never be able to invite five friends to share a meal with him. A bowl of fruit had been placed in its center, and he picked up an apple and eagerly devoured it. It was delicious and juicy, the best apple he had ever tasted. When nothing was left but the core, he reached for another and ate it a bit slower as his eyes wandered around the dining hall for closer inspection.

At the wall which bordered the corridor was the cupboard that Aramis had told him about, through which his meals would be delivered. Moving to it, he opened the door and looked inside. As expected, it was currently empty. The rear panel was obviously a door, for he could see the sturdy hinges. Reaching through it, he pushed on it, not really expecting that it would open. As anticipated, it was secure.

Closing the cupboard, he turned around to view the room again. In the corner nearest the outer wall was the staircase, surrounded by a decorative railing. He moved toward it and held the candle over the railing to view the steps as they disappeared into the darkness below. As Aramis had stated, they were narrow and wound sharply in a tight circle to the lower floor.

Moving through the next door, he entered the library. In the flickering light, he observed that it was not quite as spacious as the sitting room, but still it was generous amount of room. The furnishing consisted of several chairs positioned near the window for natural light, and several small tables. The bookshelves which covered three walls from floor to ceiling were well stocked with various volumes, and he knew he would have plenty of time to read them.

Moving back through the dining room, he tossed the apple core onto the table with the first, then proceeded through the sitting room and entered the bedchamber. It was almost as large as his room at the palace, with several chairs, a small table, and a large, very inviting bed. He wanted nothing more than a good night's sleep on a soft mattress, but first, he must clean himself up, and for the first time in his life, he must do it alone.

Adjacent to the bedchamber was the dressing room, and in it was a large tub of water. He reached into it and submerged his hand to test the warmth. It was still comfortably warm. The fire was burning in the hearth for heating the water and to keep the temperature inside the room warm. Closing the door to hold in the heat, he undressed and let the old clothing fall onto the floor in a heap.

Carefully, he stepped into the tub and sank down into the hot water, feeling the wonderful warmth surround him. For a while, he just sat there, luxuriating in its cleanness. Then, he scrubbed away all the sweat and filth from the Bastille, and washed the grime from his hair. By the time he was wrapped in a clean robe, he was starting to feel good again for the first time in more than a month.

Leaving the bathwater for Herve or Marie to empty, he returned to the bedroom, drying his hair with a piece of linen. That was when he noticed that he had a window that opened onto the side of the house, providing a different view than those at the rear. Moving toward it, he attempted to open the shutters, and found that they had been nailed shut. Unlike the sitting room and the library, this room did not overlook the courtyard, from which there was no escape, so Aramis had nailed the shutters to keep him in. They were a glaring reminder that he was still a prisoner.


	37. Chapter Thirty Seven

Chapter Thirty Seven

D'Artagnan paced restlessly in the king's chamber, his path taking him back and forth past the chair where his wife sat near the window. The sun was up, and both had passed a nearly sleepless night of worrying and wondering how the transfer of their son from the prison to his new home had progressed.

Anne watched silently as he passed her again, his hands clasped behind his back and a worried frown creasing his brow. Inside, the queen mother was as nervous and restless as her husband, but her genteel demeanor presented the illusion of calm. Instead, she fidgeted ever so slightly, alternately gazing outside at the rising sun and observing her husband's agitation. Philippe stood near her, frequently dropping his hand to her shoulder for an affectionate and reassuring squeeze.

Aramis had been instructed to come directly to the king's chamber at his earliest convenience with a verbal report on Louis' removal from the Bastille and getting him settled into his new quarters, but the clock continued to tick away the minutes, leaving all three of them to imagine all sorts of problems that could have occurred, problems that the priest would have attempted to resolve before going to the palace.

"Is he late?" Philippe finally asked, breaking the silence in the room.

D'Artagnan glanced at the clock once again, a gesture that had been repeated many times that morning. "I suppose that depends on where he is coming from. It is possible that he decided to stay at the house overnight and return to Paris this morning, in which case it will take him some time to get here. Or he may have returned to the Cathedral, in which case he should have been here by now. With Aramis, it is impossible to say."

"Could something have gone wrong?" Anne asked, speaking the words that neither of the men had wanted to say. "Could Louis have tried to escape? Maybe he's ---" She stopped abruptly, unable to say the words. "What if something happened?"

D'Artagnan paused in his pacing to look at her, his blue eyes filled with worry as he tried to reassure her. "I am certain that Aramis would have come to me at once, so we must not let ourselves think these thoughts. It is likely that everything went as planned, and that he was simply delayed for reasons that probably have nothing to do with the transfer." He resumed his pacing, listening to the silence that settled over the room again.

When the knock at the door came, it startled all three of them, even though it had been expected. D'Artagnan slipped quietly away from the door where he would not be seen by the guard when it opened. It would not seem so unusual for the king's mother to join him in his chamber on occasion, but it might raise eyebrows for the Musketeer captain to be involved in a family setting.

When he was safely concealed, Philippe called, "Enter!"

The door opened and the guard announced from the doorway, "The priest, Father Aramis wishes an audience with your majesty."

"My mother and I are expecting him," Philippe responded. "Send him in."

Aramis stepped through the opening, and the guard pulled it closed behind him. D'Artagnan stepped back into the open while Anne rose eagerly from her chair, all of them anxious for news of Louis. Without waiting for pleasantries, Aramis said, "It is done."

"Did everything go as planned?" D'Artagnan asked. "We were starting to worry."

"I apologize for the delay, but my coach broke an axle this morning," the priest explained. "The transfer could not have gone better. He was on his best behavior, and although a little resentful, he was grateful to get out of the Bastille and into a more pleasant environment. He gave us no trouble at all during the journey to the house."

Tears of relief welled in Anne's eyes, and she pressed her hands against her lips to stop them from trembling. "Bless you, Aramis!"

"How did he look?" D'Artagnan asked. "Is he well?"

"As well as can be expected coming out of such a place. I regret to say that he is a bit thin. When I asked about it, he said it was difficult to eat in the mask and that the food he was given was beneath his standard."

Anger flamed in D'Artagnan's eyes. "I ordered that he be well fed. Did they not follow orders?"

"The food was most likely better than what the other prisoners were receiving, but even so the standard would fall well below what he was accustomed to receiving here at the palace," Aramis explained. "He is accustomed to the very best. Anything less than that would be inferior in his eyes."

"I should imagine he had trouble sleeping, also," Philippe added, knowingly.

Aramis nodded in agreement. "Yes, it would seem so. He looked quite haggard, in fact."

Anne appeared quite distressed by news of her son's discomfort, and D'Artagnan placed a comforting arm around her shoulders as he said, regretfully, "I wish there had been someplace else to put him."

"Unfortunately, there was no such place," Aramis reminded him. "Try not to think of his bad times, and think only of the good. He is in a much better place, and will have only good food and drink from now on. He will put the weight back on quickly. Marie drew him a bath and turned down his bed for him, so I imagine after he got cleaned up that he had a good night's sleep. She will have a nice breakfast prepared for him this morning, and she and her husband will do everything they can do accommodate him and keep him comfortable."

"Thank you, my friend," D'Artagnan said, gratefully. "Your help in this matter has been invaluable."

The priest turned to the queen mother. "My lady, I let him know that you would be visiting him each week. I know you must be eager to see him, but I would urge you to give him a few days to settle into his new environment before making the journey. This is quite an adjustment." He did not state the true reason for the requested delay was because he hoped Louis would look a bit better by that time. The young man's pallor and the dark circles beneath his eyes would be distressing to the mother.

Although disappointed, Anne seemed to accept the explanation, however, and remained unaware of the priest's true motive. "I had hoped to visit him today, but I suppose it will not hurt to wait until another day, if you think it would be beneficial to him."

"I believe so, my lady. Two days might even be better."

"I wish I could see him too," D'Artagnan said, wistfully, "but I know he would not admit me into his chambers. Anne, you must tell me all about it when you see him."

"I will," she promised. "Father Aramis, I will never forget everything you have done to help make right the terrible injustice that was done to me and to Philippe. And we owe you another debt of gratitude for all you have done to get Louis into a better place."

The priest bent slightly at the waist. "You owe me nothing, my lady. Anything I have done could never eradicate the sins of my participation in separating Philippe from his mother, and the horrors of the mask. I can only hope that setting things right again is enough to offer me redemption in this life and salvation in the Hereafter."

"I will pray that it will be so," she said.

"And now, I must take my leave. The transfer of power is now complete, and I have one last journey to make."

"A journey?" Philippe asked, curiously.

"Yes. I promised your father that once the transfer was made and you and your brother were both settled, I would pay a visit to Yvette." Glancing at Anne, knowing that she had no idea who Yvette was, he explained, "She is the woman who so kindly took Philippe into her home and raised him. D'Artagnan believes we should let her know that he is safe and well."

"She was very distraught when they took me away," Philippe added. "I think she will be happy to know that I am safe."

"Please thank her for me," Anne said. "See if there is anything she needs, anything at all. I wish her to be well cared for."

"I will say as much as I am able," Aramis said. "I will tell her that the boy was taken from his mother against your will as an infant, and that you have been reunited. And I will pass along your appreciation for the care she provided to him. I do not know if she will accept assistance, but I will make the offer."

"Thank you."

"And when I return, I will continue to help the king as part of his private council, plus I have other duties to attend. I have been long remiss of my responsibilities at the Cathedral. Until then." With another slight bow to his king and to the queen mother, he made his exit.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Louis was awakened by the alarming sensation of a presence in the room with him, and opening his bleary eyes, he was startled to find the face of a man standing at his bedside looking down at him. Blinking rapidly in an attempt to clear the sleep-induced fog from his mind, he shot straight up in bed as his eyes focused on the man who had been brazen enough to enter the king's private rooms uninvited.

"What do you think you are doing in my chamber?" he demanded.

The man made an incoherent guttural sound, reminding the deposed king that the man's tongue had been removed. Everything came back to him in a dizzying rush. Glancing quickly around the room, he remembered the horrors of the Bastille, the midnight journey to the house, and the two people who would be attending to his needs. A frown creased his brow. He should know the name of the man who had awakened him, but it did not immediately come to mind.

"You slept so long, we thought maybe you had passed away during the night," said a feminine voice from the doorway. "I asked Herve to check on you to be sure you were still breathing."

Louis' eyes darted to the doorway and found Herve's wife standing there, watching with an expression of cold aloofness. She had demonstrated common courtesy by not coming near his bed, but she had come uninvited into his room and she was equally as brazen as her husband to stare at the king while he was sleeping. "Get out of my bedchamber, woman!" he commanded, arranging the sheet so that he was suitably covered. Turning a hostile eye to Herve, he added, "Both of you!"

"We were just checking on you. Neither of us has ever seen anyone abed at this hour that wasn't sick. It's nigh on eight thirty. We have already completed the chores in here and emptied out your bath. Now, it is time to get that beard shaved off your face so I can get to my duties downstairs."

Louis stared at her incredulously. They had awakened him from a sound sleep to shave his beard? "Can that not wait?" he asked, impatiently. "I am not ready to get up yet."

"I have a household to run," Marie replied in a clipped voice. "The beard does not have to be shaved, of course. If you prefer to remain in bed, we can wait until tomorrow, or you can let it grow until you trip on it. It is of no concern to me."

"Of course, I want it shaved off and I want it done today, but I fail to see the need to do it right this minute."

"Father Aramis said that we should see to your needs, but I haven't the time to cater to laziness. Sun's been up for hours. Time you be getting up as well."

"I am not lazy!" he retorted, angrily. "I was up late last night!"

"As were we."

"But you are servants! You are accustomed to getting up early."

Marie was clearly offended by his insensitive reference to the differences in their social status. "Suit yourself. We will see you tomorrow, then." She turned to leave, but then stopped and spoke over her shoulder, "As for being servants, at least Herve and I are not prisoners!"

His face flushed deep red with anger, but she turned and made her exit before he could think of a response. Her husband followed.

Alone again, Louis laid his head back down on the soft pillow, hoping to catch another hour or so of sleep, but he quickly discovered that the argument and the insult had awakened him to the degree that he would be unable to relax enough to go back to sleep. His hand was resting against his cheek, making him aware of the ever-lengthening beard on his face. It was thin and scraggly, and he knew he did not want to wear it another day.

Throwing back the covers, he snatched up the robe he had tossed over a chair he night before and wrapped himself in it as he ran after them, catching up to them in the sitting room. "Wait!

Marie turned around. "Changed your mind, did you?"

"I do not want to wait until tomorrow, so let's get this done," he said, securely tying the sash around his waist. "Where do you want me?"

"Over there by the window, where it is light."

Louis felt a twinge of annoyance at her self-satisfied smile. Never in his life had he been around such impudent servants. At the palace, the smug woman and her husband would have been dismissed immediately for treating the king with so little respect. A cold emptiness settled into his heart as he was reminded of the harsh reality. No matter how often he proclaimed himself the country's monarch, it was no longer true. Philippe was on the throne, and no amount of bitter words and hateful thoughts could change that.

Without replying, he moved to the chair she had indicated, he sat down and waited while she filled a basin with water and placed it on a small table near him. Tilting his head back, he looked up at the ceiling as he allowed her to begin scraping the hairs from his cheeks and chin with a straight razor.

At the first stroke, it occurred to him that she could easily slit his throat with the sharp blade, and it brought a quiet jolt in regards to his vulnerability. At the palace, Francois had performed this task, easily and effectively shaving away his facial hair. Louis had felt comfortable under his care, trusting him with completely with the razor. He had heard no news of Francois since the hunt, but he could only wonder if he was still in the king's service, and if so why he had apparently not noticed any differences between him and the king he now served.

As Marie continued to work, he began to relax, knowing that she would not attempt to harm him. For some reason that he was unable to determine, D'Artagnan and his three friends seemed determined to keep him safe and comfortable. Perhaps it was the many years of loyal service that the captain had given him up until his betrayal, but more than likely it was Philippe's influence. He tried to remember his twin's parting words; something to the effect of wishing that they could know each other as brothers. Family.

Resentment prickled Louis' scalp. How could Philippe even think that they could ever be family to one another? Was he not the one who had stolen his throne and placed him in the Bastille wearing that damnable mask?

Something stirred inside his heart, allowing less selfish thoughts to enter his mind. Wasn't what he had done to Philippe even worse? If someone had forced him to wear an iron mask for six years, revenge would have been foremost in his thoughts, not an attempt to get to know him as family. What was it about Philippe that inspired such a willingness to forgive?

His eyes shifted to Marie, watching the concentration on her face as she continued to shave his beard, using the utmost care not to cause him injury, and a thought crept unbidden into his mind. He could easily overpower her and use the razor to facilitate his escape. All he had to do was reach up and snatch the blade from her hands. She would be so startled that she would probably step back and allow him to have it without resisting. His muscles tensed in preparation for the escape attempt that was forming in his mind, and his hands gripped the arms of the chair, ready to fling himself from it.

Almost as if he could sense the thoughts that crept into the deposed king's mind, Herve stepped into his line of vision, observing him with alert watchfulness, and Louis focused on him, studying the hate that smoldered in his harsh eyes. Releasing his grip on the arms of the chair, he reconsidered his initial plan. Herve would not be so easy to overpower, but if he used the razor to threaten his wife, perhaps he could use her as leverage to get out of the house.

It must not be done recklessly; he must have a plan. Carefully, he sought to remember the floor plan of the house. His door was well away from the stairs, but once he reached them, getting down them should be no trouble. But what of the other servants? They had apparently retired to their chambers on the third floor the previous night, so he had no way of knowing how many there were. There would likely be men among them, men possibly strong enough to take him before he reached the door. And if he was caught, he knew that Aramis would make good his threat to return him to the Bastille.

His mouth went dry at the thought of returning to that terrible place, and nausea seeped into his stomach. _No, I will not go back there! I would rather die! _He began to feel panicked, and jumbled, fragmented thoughts raced through his head as he tried to form a plan. What was the distance between the house and the stable? Were there horses in the stable? He had never in his life saddled a horse, having always left that task to stable personnel, as was proper for someone of his rank. Even if he managed to get safely out of the house, he would waste valuable time trying to find a saddle and fasten it properly. The horses, if any were on the property, might be out in the pasture and difficult to catch. He would be on foot, and certain to be captured. And returned to the Bastille. The nausea was getting worse and his breathing accelerated as images of that terrible place entered his mind.

Marie drew back suddenly, recognizing the sickness in his expression. "Are you ill?"

He leaned forward, resting his head in his hands as he waited for the overwhelming queasiness to ease.

"You are quite pale!" she declared with surprising concern. She placed her cool hand against his forehead, but her touch was not soft like that of his mother. Marie's hands were rough and callused from years of hard work. "There is no fever," she announced. "But there is definitely sickness in your eyes. Perhaps you should lie down for a spell until it passes."

"I think I am just weak from hunger," he mumbled.

Marie nodded in agreement, but there was no sympathy on her face. "I suppose you are not accustomed to doing without the rich meals served at the palace, are you?" she asked with bitterness. "Herve and I have had to do without a meal many times in our lives under your rule." Tucking the razor into a pocket in her apron, she gestured to the basin of water. "You can rinse your face now. I'm done. Your breakfast is on the table in the dining hall."

Rising from the chair on unsteady legs, Louis dipped his hands in the water and splashed it on his face. The wetness was refreshing, and for several moments, he leaned on his elbows, his face only inches from the water, and watched as it dripped from his nose back into the basin, forming tiny ringlets on the surface. He took deep breaths, and gradually he felt the nausea begin to abate.

Rising up, he reached for the linen she offered and pressed its softness against his face while she took the basin and waited for him to finish drying his face. When his faced was dried, he handed the linen to her.

"We're going to leave you, now. If you become sick, just pull he cord in your bedchamber and we will check on you. You will probably feel better after you eat."

Turning, she moved through the doorway into the corridor beyond. A moment later, Herve followed her, and he heard the bolt slide into place.

Spying a mirror on the wall that he had not noticed the night before, he went to it and observed his reflection for the first time in five weeks. He was startled by what he saw. His hair, usually shiny and well brushed, was now dull and scattered wildly in all directions with severe tangles and mats. His face was unusually gaunt, and there were dark shadows under his eyes attesting to his difficulty in obtaining sleep during his incarceration. By contrast, the rest of his face was terribly pale. Five weeks in the Bastille had taken its toll on him. Reaching up, he pressed his fingertips to his freshly shaven cheeks, feeling the slightly hollow places where his face had once been full and healthy.

His eyes shifted in the mirror, suddenly noticing the position of the door, and the purpose of the mirror's location became clear. It had been placed there so that Herve could see it from the door and determine his position in the room before entering. Were he to be hiding behind it, Herve would be able to see him in the mirror.

Briefly, he considered ripping the mirror from the wall, but knew that it would result in an unfavorable response from the priest who had taken the personal responsibility of removing him from the throne. "Touché, Aramis," he said bitterly. "You are even more cunning than I gave you credit for." Steething with resentment, he turned away from the mirror.

Still barefoot and wearing his robe, he moved into the dining hall where Marie had said his breakfast was waiting for him. On the table, he found a platter with slices of freshly baked bread, cheese, and lean beef. A small goblet of wine stood beside it, and they had added more fruit to the bowl.

His heart lifted as he eyed the cheese and wine, two favorite items he had been denied for more than a month, and he first lifted the glass to sample the beverage. It was sweet and well-aged. Pulling out one of the oversized, ornamental chairs, he sat down to enjoy his meal.

When every delicious morsel of his breakfast had been consumed and every drop from the goblet of wine had been drunk, he placed the platter and the goblet on the tray and set it inside the cupboard for Marie to retrieve. Then he returned to his dressing room where he knew he would have to dress himself. His eye fell briefly on the tub and saw that the water had been emptied from it, and the ragged clothing he had left on the floor had been taken away, presumably before they had awakened him. Everything had been scrubbed and polished.

Moving to the wardrobe, he opened the doors to observe the clothing that were hung inside it. The garments were well-suited to his high rank, and were arranged by item. After a few moments, he selected a crisp white shirt and a pair of breeches, but as he reached for one of the coats, his hand stopped abruptly. What was the point of wearing a coat? There was no one to see him, no one to impress with a formal appearance. He withdrew the hand, and closed the doors again.

Dressing himself was not particularly difficult. Although rare, he had done it on occasion. When he was dressed, he picked up the hairbrush and looked at it. It was his own, taken from his dressing room at the palace. Philippe must have commissioned a new one for himself.

He had washed his hair the night before, but had not bothered to brush the tangles from it, a task he must accomplish on his own, and one he knew would not be a pleasant undertaking. Raising the brush, he dragged it through his hair, wincing as the tangles caught in the bristles. Never in his life had his hair been in such terrible condition. Thinking bad thoughts all the while, he brushed and brushed until all the snarls and tangles had been eliminated, along with some of the hairs that had broken or pulled free.

Satisfied with his appearance and feeling reasonably human again, he went back to the large sitting room and sank down on one of the soft comfortable chairs, allowing his eyes to peruse the walls and the décor. Clearly, this room had been part of his late relative's private chambers and he assumed that much of the decoration was original, but the doorway into the dining hall had not been there prior to the renovations. The wood facing was new, and there was a lingering aroma of sawdust.

After a few moments, he stood up again and walked through that new doorway into the dining hall again. Curiously, he opened the cupboard and found that his morning tray had been carried away. The bowl of fruit was still on the table, but he was not hungry at the moment.

While in prison, there had been nothing else to do except pace the floor like a caged animal or lie on his bunk in an attempt to fall asleep. But here, Aramis had informed him that he could even go outside, so he moved to the stairs and looked over the railing. Supported by a central post, the staircase was a very narrow spiral, wide enough for only one person to pass, and was constructed of solid wood that wound down the stairwell toward the first floor, which was not visible due to the walls that completely enclosed the shaft. As Aramis had stated the night before, it would be impossible for even one of the large kitchen chairs, with its straight back and legs, to be maneuvered down the narrow circular stairwell.

With a wry smile he started down, following the steps as they twisted sharply to the right. At the bottom, he found himself in a narrow entryway, completely enclosed with stone and mortar, and he paused to inspect it. The mortar was still dark, indicating that it was still curing, but was solid enough that it would require a heavy tool to break through it.

The door stood in front of him, an opening so narrow that he would almost have to turn sideways in order to exit. Feeling surprisingly amused, he knew he would have to be careful not to gain too much weight, or he would not be able to squeeze through!

Reaching toward the door, his hand closed on the latch and he felt somewhat surprised when he heard the _"click"_ as it released. He pulled the door open, and stepped through it into the morning sunlight.

Beautiful, blessed sunlight! Five weeks without feeling the warmth of the sun had been almost unbearable. Closing his eyes, he turned his face toward the golden rays and felt its warmth upon his pallid skin. A gentle breeze stirred the hair that fell upon his shoulders and caressed his face. It felt wonderful to be outside again.

Somewhere beyond the wall, he heard a horse whinny, instantly bringing his eyes open again. So, there were horses on the property. He wished he could see it. What color was it? Was it in the pasture grazing, or was it confined in a paddock? The irony was not lost on him; it was as if he, too, was confined to a paddock, a small enclosure in which to exercise and take the fresh air.

A bird twittered above him, and he looked up, seeking out its perch. He found it on the edge of the roof, singing a morning song. From the eaves, Louis knew it would be able to see a great distance, and whenever it wanted to, it was free to fly away.

With a sigh of resignation, he observed the enclosure that was his prison yard. It was much larger than he had anticipated, providing ample room for him to move about, with narrow flagstone paths winding informally through the shrubs and beds. The flower beds were freshly tilled for the obvious purpose of removing weeds, and even though the shrubs had been unattended for years, a few bore roses on their stems, and he detected a faint suggestion of their scent. There were no trees inside the courtyard, and he knew that had any been present, they would have been removed to prevent him from climbing it. Surrounding it all was the high whitewashed wall. Its smooth surface provided no handholds for climbing, and as Aramis had said, it was too high to scale.

Accepting his confinement as an unchangeable fact, he walked along the path, enjoying the feel of the sun and the breeze.

* * *

_**A/N:** This was supposed to have been the next to the last chapter, but there was still a bit more that needed telling, so after this there are still two chapters to post._


	38. Chapter Thirty Eight

Chapter Thirty Eight

After allowing two days for Louis to adjust to his new environment, his anxious mother could wait no longer. "I must see my son," she said to her husband as they lay in bed together one morning prior to rising. She was curled on her side facing him, her arm folded under her pillow. "I have not seen him in more than five weeks, and I miss him."

D'Artagnan hesitated briefly before responding, his eyes studying the pattern on the ceiling as he considered her request. He knew that she was eager to see the son who had departed the palace one morning for a hunt and had never returned, but he did not want to see her hurt if Louis refused to see her. "He may be bitter and angry," he warned. "He has been stripped of everything that means the most to him: Power, status, women, his freedom. He thrives on them, and now that he no longer has any of them, he may lash out, and you will make an easy target for his wrath."

Anne had already considered that possibility, and even though it would hurt, her need to see him, to see that he was safe and well, was foremost in her mind. "I am prepared for that," she said. "But I can go no longer without seeing him. He and I have never been very close, but I want to let him know that no matter what has happened, he is my son and I do love him. He needs to know that."

"I know," D'Artagnan agreed. He turned over on his side and propped himself up on his elbow, facing her. "Anne, he may question you about those of us who were involved in seizing his throne. He knows that Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and I were responsible for it, but I want you to promise me that you will never reveal to him that you were aware that it was going to happen. He will think himself betrayed, and since you will be his only visitor, you must allow him to think that you only found out after the fact."

"I had hoped he would not ask, but I suppose you are right." Reaching out with one hand, she stroked back a lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead, allowing her fingertips to linger against his cheek. "You have borne so much where Louis is involved, watching him grow up from a distance. It does not seem fair to you to shoulder the burden of blame, when I knew weeks before he was arrested that he would be replaced by Philippe."

"Letting him know that you were aware of it would serve no purpose except to cause bitter feelings toward you, that you did not warn him of it. He may never forgive you for that. Even though you knew that replacing him was the right thing to do, for his safety as well as the welfare of the country, you could not have stopped it from happening."

She sighed. "I know you are right. It is just so unfair to you."

He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. "Unfortunately, it is how it must be. I will content myself with knowing that he is safe and well. I will send a message to Herve, advising him of your visit," he promised.

As soon as he rose, he penned a message to Louis' guard, advising him of the impending visit by the queen mother, reminding him that no one else besides him and his wife Marie should know the identity of the prisoner's visitor. It was common for servants to remain out of sight when important visitors were in the manor house, but to anyone who might chance a glimpse of her, she was simply a noble woman there to visit the mysterious resident on the second floor. The letter was sent ahead with a courier to allow them time to prepare.

After breakfast, D'Artagnan ordered a coach brought to the front entrance to the palace, and he, Lieutenant Andre, and Athos escorted Anne to the renovated mansion where Louis was being confined.

Herve had been watching from the window, eager to see the queen mother, and he stepped outside and opened the coach door for her. D'Artagnan dismounted and offered his hand to assist her to the ground, but because they were in public, he walked appropriately behind her as they entered the house. Athos and Andre remained outside with the horses.

Marie curtseyed to her as Herve closed the door behind them. "Welcome, my lady. I have advised him that you would be visiting today. If there is anything I can do to make your visit more comfortable, let me know and we will do our best to accommodate you."

Anne acknowledged the greeting by dipping her head in a nod, but what she really wanted to do was thank the woman profusely for taking care of her son. "The house looks wonderful," she said. "You and your friends have done a good job preparing it for him."

"Thank you, my lady. My husband, Herve, will escort you up to his chamber."

She turned toward the man who had followed her inside, and he bowed respectfully, then gestured with his hand toward the stairs. Anne felt a mild tremor in her spine, realizing that this was the man D'Artagnan had told her about; the man whose tongue had been cut out by Louis' order. Maintaining a carefully neutral expression, she gathered her skirts in her hand and ascended the steps to the second floor. At the top, she paused to look over the railing at her husband, who had remained in the entry hall. He gave an encouraging wink, and she started down the corridor.

After they had disappeared from his view, D'Artagnan turned to Marie and asked, "You have been told that she will be making weekly visits?"

"Yes. I was told the same day each week."

"She may wish to come more often, so if there is any deviation from the schedule, I will send a courier to let you know. Are the servants asking questions about his identity?"

"No. Father Aramis gathered everyone together and explained that he is a political prisoner who is being confined by order of the king, and that his identity is being concealed for his own protection. He explicitly forbade anyone from making any attempts to see him. They are quite curious, I am certain of that, but no one is willing to disobey Aramis or the king."

"Good. Excellent. Is he behaving well?"

"Perfectly. He has a bit of a sharp tongue, but I suppose that is to be expected. Other than that, he has so far been a model prisoner. I should mention that he seemed a bit ill the first morning after he arrived. I told him to call us if he needed help or anything, but he never did. He seemed better this morning."

Feeling relieved, D'Artagnan walked to the foot of the steps and looked up toward the corridor which led to his son's room. He could no longer see Herve or Anne, but he heard the muffled sound of the latch being pulled back on the door.

After unlocking the door, Herve opened it just enough to look through it at the mirror, seeking the position of the deposed king. Finding the sitting room empty, he opened the door fully and stepped back to allow her room to enter.

She glanced at him as she stepped into the room, and he immediately averted his eyes and bowed his head with respect. Apparently his hatred of Louis did not extend to the deposed monarch's mother.

As soon as she was inside, she heard the door close and lock behind her, and she turned to face it with an unsettling feeling of apprehension. Of course she had known that it would be locked behind her to prevent Louis' escape, yet it was a strange sensation to be locked inside a room with no way out except to wait until it was unlocked again from the outside. She could only imagine what it must feel like to a prisoner, never allowed outside a controlled environment, always at the mercy of others.

Turning to face the interior again, she observed the empty sitting room, pleased to see that it was large, attractive and comfortable. Louis was not there, and she wondered if he had retired to his bedchamber for a nap. If so, she was reluctant to wake him, so she called softly, "Louis?"

He emerged from the dining hall holding a half eaten pear in his hand, and he stopped when he saw his mother standing near the door. She was carrying a small basket, which he presumed must contain some kind of snack or treat for him, and he experienced a childlike eagerness, wondering what it could be. At the palace, whenever he wanted something, he merely sent a servant to bring it to him. Now, he must rely on his mother to bring it to him.

Anne's first instinct was to rush to him and embrace him in the joy of seeing him again, but she resisted the impulse. Louis had never been one to exhibit open displays of affection toward anyone, including his mother, so she smiled her greeting. "It is good to see you again, my son."

She would have been surprised to know that he experienced a similar impulse to rush to her, yet he held back, thinking it undignified to run to his mother like a child. "Mother," he said, quietly. "Marie told me you would be coming today." He seemed hesitant and embarrassed at being seen in his confinement, and for the first time at a loss for words. Gesturing toward the door behind him, he said, "I have some fruit in the dining hall, if you would like something."

"No, thank you. Just seeing you looking so well is enough. When they told me that you were in . . . " Her voice trailed, unable to speak the dreaded word. " . . . in that terrible place, I feared what it would do to you."

He averted his eyes briefly of the reminder of where he had been incarcerated, and she saw the mild expression of pain that crossed his face.

"Oh, Louis, I am so sorry!" Disregarding his typical formality, she closed the distance that separated them, and embraced him, feeling mildly surprised when she felt his arms wrap around her, holding her close against him. "I have missed you terribly, my son."

"I have missed you too, Mother," he admitted.

When she drew back, she observed his face, noticing with distress that his face was somewhat gaunt. "You are so thin!" she exclaimed, caressing his cheeks with her hands.

"It is difficult to remain healthy on prison slop," he replied, his voice tense. "Swine in the barnyard are better fed than I was!" Calming himself, he gestured toward the more comfortable chair. "Please sit down, Mother, and we will have a visit. We never talked much when I was still at the palace."

She sank into the chair and placed the basket on the table between them. "I brought some of your favorite pastries."

Trying not to look as eager as he felt, he set aside the pear and reached for the basket and removed the cloth that covered them. Inside it were his favorite pastries. "Thank you, Mother."

"I will bring you something special every time I come," she promised. Her gaze grew misty with concern for his wellbeing. "Are you well, Louis? Is there anything you need, anything I can get for you?"

He was silent for a long moment, indicating that he felt she should know the answer to the question without asking, but he curbed his temper. "Since you cannot produce the means of securing my freedom, then I can think of nothing that I need. I am well fed and well clothed and kept reasonably comfortable. The only thing I am lacking is the ability to walk through that door."

"I am so sorry that this has happened to you, Louis. You are my son, and it grieves me to see you unhappy."

He looked at her for a long moment, pondering a question that had been on his mind since his arrest. "Mother, I must know something. Aramis told me that you were not involved in the things that have happened to me, but I want to know one thing. When you realized what was happening, why didn't you help me?"

His question stung, and she was unprepared for it even though she knew he might ask. "I hated to think of you in that place, but I am not in a position of power. There was nothing I could do."

"You could have told someone of this plot to overthrow me! You could have informed Claude or Gerard. They would have known what to do. Instead, you did nothing! You allowed this to happen to me! Is this in retribution for what I did to Philippe?"

"No, Louis! You must never think that! I love you both! I would never do anything to bring harm to either of you, but I was unable to help you any more than I could help Philippe all those years."

Reminded once again of his poor treatment of his brother, he looked away with a sigh. "Did you have prior knowledge of this conspiracy against me?"

Looking at him now, knowing that she had been aware of his removal from the palace all along and had even agreed that it was necessary, it was a difficult query to answer without exacerbating the current situation. Drawing a deep breath, she looked at him steadily and provided a slightly ambiguous response that neither confirmed nor denied her prior knowledge of the plan to exchange the twins. "I knew nothing of your arrest until later in the day when I was informed by Captain D'Artagnan. He ---"

"The traitor!" Louis spat angrily at the mention of the Musketeer's name. "All these years, he has pretended to be my faithful and loyal servant, and then he betrayed me by joining forces with the Jesuits in their conspiracy to steal my throne from me! I would shoot him on sight if I had the chance!"

Anne winced at the harsh words directed toward her husband, and averted her eyes in an attempt to hide her distress.

Louis instantly detected her discomfort, and his eyes narrowed. "You agree with them, don't you? You believe it was for the good of France that I was stripped of my throne and my authority! You are glad that my brother has seized power!"

Anne felt her pulse accelerate at his accusation, but she took a moment to calm herself while Louis continued to glare at her. This response, at least, was totally honest. "It was never my desire to see you stripped of power, Louis, nor was it my desire to see you humiliated and placed in the mask any more than it was my desire to see my other son humiliated and placed in the mask. I cannot be sorry that Philippe has been freed -– he should never have been in prison -- but I never wanted you to be incarcerated either. This has been a difficult situation for all of us, beginning with the day my late husband stole my younger child from me and facilitated a lie which was never brought into the open until his death bed. He is the instigator of all the misery that has plagued us ever since."

"He did what he thought was best to protect the birthright of his older son," Louis insisted in defense of the man he believed was his father. "The rightful heir!"

"That does not excuse what he did. You do not know the kind of pain that comes from losing a child! He witnessed my grief every day, and yet he never told me until he was on his deathbed that my son was alive! I should have been given the opportunity to know both of you. He was wrong to take my son from me, Louis, just as you were wrong to place your brother in an iron mask and send him away to live in that prison."

"So, you think I deserve to be treated this way?"

"The penalty you have received has caused me distress each and every day since I first learned what had been done to you, but the plot to overthrow you was much bigger than the men who carried it out. There were many who wanted to see you executed or assassinated. Others believe that confinement was an appropriate punishment for the things you have done."

"Punishment!" Louis echoed, angrily. "I am above the law! My throne has been given to me by God! I answer only to Him!"

"That is blasphemy," Anne answered promptly. "No one is above the law, Louis. Not even you. Your throne was passed down to you from the previous king, just as it came to him from the one before. Because you are my son, I think the punishment was harsh, but --"

"But you are thinking that I have done to others much worse things that have been done to me, are you not?" he challenged.

"You have been a cruel king," she admitted. "One look at the man standing outside this door will reveal that much, but there are so many others, some who were executed for things that were not their doing."

A sudden chill shuddered through his body, haunted by the memory of the dream he had had the previous day, and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Like Pierre?"

His tone of voice had changed abruptly from angry to surprisingly hushed. "Yes. He was not to blame for the spoiled food that you ordered to be distributed to the people, and if you would stop and think about it, I am certain you would see that."

Louis was very subdued, and for a moment he considered revealing the disturbing nightmare to his mother, but then changed his mind, deciding that it served no purpose to reveal that his late advisor was haunting his dreams. "I regret that decision," he confessed, quietly. "I was getting tired of hearing about the civilian riots and Pierre and Claude constantly telling me that I needed to find a way to feed the people. There were other things, more pleasurable things, that I wanted to be doing, so I reacted impulsively."

"Louis, you sentenced him the harshest punishment there is for something that was not his fault. Impulsive behavior is the way of children, not kings! A king must act responsibly by carefully weighing each matter before making decisions, and he must never condemn a man to death simply because there are things he would rather be doing."

Louis fell silent and lowered his eyes to the hardwood floor, thinking about what she had just said. Ordinarily, he would be angered by her reproachful words, but instead he felt severely chastised. In this one matter, at least, he had clearly failed, and her comparison to childish impulsiveness had struck a cord. He _had_ reacted without thinking, and a man was dead because of it; a man who had served him well for years.

Realizing that he was giving her words some consideration, she continued, "Louis, I think the blame for your cruelty lies mostly with the way you were brought up, not with who you are. I believe you have the ability to be a good person, but you were taught to be harsh and pitiless, and I am partly to blame for that. I should have taken more control over the way you were being raised, and it shames me to admit that I was neglectful of that, but you became the man that the former king taught you to be. He gave you everything you wanted so that he could avoid the responsibility of simply being with you, or teaching you the things you needed to know to effectively rule the country."

"It is interesting that you would say that," Louis said, thoughtfully. "When they arrested me, they told me things that are very similar to what you have just said about how I was brought up to be the way I am. I believe D'Artagnan called me a 'spoiled, pampered peacock', but he also said something about me being as much a victim as the citizens I have wronged." Slowly, he rose from his chair and wandered to the mantle. Leaning his arm on it, he gazed reflectively into the empty hearth. "It made me angry that they would speak so boldly against my father, but now I hear you saying the same thing. Either you are in league with them, or there is some truth to what you say."

"It is true, Louis," she insisted as she stood up and went to his side. Placing her hand on his arm, she said gently, "You _were_ a victim of your upbringing."

"And now I pay the price for it," he said, bitterly.

"I wish it could be different, but there is nothing I can do to change what has been done. We all must live with the consequences."

"None more than I," he said. He turned around to face her. "You have lived in your own private prison all these years, haven't you? Always sequestered away in your chamber, punishing yourself for your own failures. The only difference is, you had the ability to walk out of it any time you chose. It must have been strange for you to leave the palace to come here to visit me."

"I came because I love you, Louis. We have made many mistakes, you and I and the former king."

Louis cocked his head, slightly. "I have noticed that you do not like to refer to him as your husband or my father."

She was momentarily startled by his words, but covered it well. "He was not a good husband to me or a good father to you. I know you loved him as a child loves his father, but for him being a father only meant honoring his obligation to produce an heir. Beyond that, he wanted little to do with either of us."

"I know," Louis agreed. "He never spent time with me. He just gave me an occasional pat on the head when I was little, and virtually ignored me afterward. Instead, he gave me _things_. Things which I came to expect." He shook his head, abruptly. "I grow tired of such depressing talk. Would you care to see my prison?"

"I wish you would not think of it as a prison. I know it is not the freedom you crave, but is it not better than the stone walls and iron bars of the Bastille?"

He sighed, heavily. "Forgive me, Mother. Of course it is better, and I know that were it not for you and Philippe, the Bastille is where I would be." The dark, dank image of life inside the prison flashed into his mind, and he felt a sudden urge for sunlight and fresh air. Reaching out, he took his mother by the hand. "Come, I will take you my courtyard and we will have a nice walk together."

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Had it not been for Lieutenant Andre's presence, D'Artagnan would have, for the first time in his life, abandoned protocol so that he might ride inside the coach with his wife where he could hold her and comfort her, but because the young lieutenant knew nothing of his marriage to the queen mother, he was forced to content himself with riding beside her window, casting frequent concerned glances at the rigidly stoic expression on her face, knowing that hidden inside, her heart was breaking. She carried a lacy white handkerchief with her, which she used to occasionally dab at her eyes, increasing his concern that the visit had not gone well.

It was not until they had returned to her chamber that Anne could relate to him the events that happened inside Louis' chambers. She spared nothing, telling him about their son's weight loss, his apparent despondency at being confined, his brief outburst of anger, and his accusations, and after she had revealed everything, she wept softly against his chest as he consoled her.

Gently wiping her face with his fingertips, he said softly, "We knew the first time would be the most difficult. This is why Aramis wanted you to wait before seeing him, to give him a chance to recover from the effects of the Bastille and accept his confinement. This is a dramatic adjustment for Louis, one that will require time for him to accept. But I do believe that, in time, he will accept them."

"It was just so hard seeing him like that," she said, sadly. "I know Aramis had told us that Louis appeared rather haggard, but I never expected him to be so gaunt!"

"He will put the weight back on now that he is receiving the food to which he is accustomed. And I know you took him a basketful of pastries," he added with a patient smile.

"There were changes in him that were more than physical. Always at the palace, he was so energetic and confident, bursting with enthusiasm and authority. He is but a shell of the man he once was. He was angry, yet at the same time he was almost docile. I have never seen like this before."

"Shh," he said, softly, stroking her hair with his hand. "I am sorry you had to see him like that, but I assure you, it will get better as he adjusts. And it is certainly preferable to the alternative."

"Yes, that is true," she agreed. "But it is all so unfair! First Philippe was made to suffer for mistakes of the past that were not even his, and now Louis suffers!" She pulled away and dried her eyes with her handkerchief again. "I know my tears are pointless, and that there is nothing I can do. I am just a mother who is concerned about her children."

"And I am a father who is equally concerned. Anne, you know that if there was any other way –"

She pressed her fingertips to his lips. "I understand, D'Artagnan. There is nothing to be done about it. We have two sons, and we am destined to never see them in the same room together because my first husband robbed me of the precious times we should have known as a family. And yet, if Philippe had been raised here at the palace, he would never have known that you are his father, and you and he would never have been as close as you have become these past few months. I suppose I want it all, but I know it can never be. Life is never perfect. We must make of it what we can, and accept what can not be."

"You are a wise woman."

She laid her head against his chest again, content to listen to his steady heartbeat. "If there is one good thing to come of this, Louis said he would like to get closer to me than we have been at the palace. Always, there were other people he would rather be with than me, but now that I will be his only visitor, I suppose he feels we should know each other better. And we did have a nice visit after he had settled down. He took me for a walk in the courtyard. He and I have never taken a walk together."

"That is good," he agreed. "He has neglected you far too long."

"He also suggested that I should have lunch with him on my next visit. He has a very nice dining hall, and says that his cook is very good. I cannot remember the last time I have dined with my son!"

They were interrupted by a knock on D'Artagnan's door, and both turned toward the open doors which led through the secret passage. Both had been left open so that he could hear if someone needed to see him.

"I must go, but I'll return as soon as I am able and we will talk some more."

Leaving her with reluctance, he moved through the passage and entered his own room. After closing the bookcase door securely, he opened the door that lead into the main corridor, and found a young guard standing there.

"Pardon the interruption, Captain, but a courier has just arrived with a letter for you."

D'Artagnan took the letter and closed the door again as his eyes fell upon the blob of red wax that sealed the document's edges, taking notice of the imprint. He immediately felt his heart leap in anticipation of the news contained inside the document. Quickly, he broke the seal, unfolded the letter, and read it twice before folding it again. Moving quickly, he reentered Anne's chamber.

"Anne, something has come up that I must discuss with Philippe. Will you be all right for a short while?"

"I am all right, D'Artagnan," she assured him. "There is no need to sit with me."

"I will return as soon as I can," he promised. "We will talk more later."

Leaving her alone in her chamber, he walked down the corridor to the king's private chamber and with a nod to the guard, he knocked on the door and waited for his son to answer. As expected, he was immediately admitted.

As he entered the large room, he found the young king standing in the middle of the floor with his arms stretched out to the side as the assistant to the king's tailor held a cloth tape against him, recording his measurements on a piece of parchment. Philippe, who knew next to nothing about current fashions, was content to allow Athos to argue with the tailor about fabric, color and design. Swatches of cloth were spread out across the bed, and Athos indicated the ones most suited to the king's needs, while the tailor argued the ones he favored.

D'Artagnan smiled in amusement as he waited patiently, knowing that Athos would eventually win out because Philippe would defer to him on his selections.

"That one will best suit my needs," Philippe said, indicating the one Athos had suggested.

The tailor instantly bent slightly at the waist in a quick bow. There would be no argument, since the king's word was law. "An excellent choice, your majesty."

When the measurements were completed and the tailor had gathered up all his swatches, both men departed, leaving the young king with Athos and D'Artagnan.

"I have never been measured like that before. I had no idea a tailor's job was so intricate. Yvette made my clothes before, and she just seemed to know how big to make them. And in the prison, I wore old clothes that had been discarded, probably from prisoners who had died."

Athos appeared pleased with the fabric selections. "Your first new set of clothes since becoming king. There will be no more cast-offs, not even from Louis." He turned to D'Artagnan. "You have waited patiently, but now you expression indicates that you are here on a matter of some importance."

D'Artagnan held up the folded sheet of paper. "A letter was just delivered by courier," he said. "It was delivered to me, but Philippe, I think you should read it, and then Athos must see it."

Philippe took the letter and looked at the seal, then his eyes met D'Artagnan's eyes in a somber glance. "The one we've been waiting for?" he asked.

Athos quietly observed the look that passed between the other two men and Philippe's slight hesitation before unfolding the document. Clearly the two men had been expecting some form of communication with the writer of the letter, of which he had not been made aware until this moment. He made no comment, however, but watched curiously as Philippe opened up the letter and read it.

Philippe gave a slight smile of satisfaction as he nodded approvingly. "Excellent. It is what we had hoped." He extended the letter toward Athos, who hesitated before taking it. It was not his mail, after all. In response to the puzzled expression that crossed Athos's face, he said, "It is from Raoul's commanding general."

More puzzled than ever, Athos finally took the letter and began to read. The muscles in his face slowly relaxed, and his surprised eyes darted up to Philippe's face as if for confirmation. In his heart, he felt a conflicting mixture of satisfying resolution and overwhelming sorrow.

"It is the exact location of Raoul's grave," Philippe confirmed. "One of the first things that Father and I did when I came to the palace was to send a courier to the front lines requesting that the general place a permanent marker on the grave, so that you can find it. It seems that the general had selected a place for Raoul and the other officers, apart from the rest of the men killed in the battle, and it was a place that he was able to locate again with ease"

Athos was silent for a long moment, hardly daring to believe that he had heard and read correctly. "You never said a word. Either of you."

"We agreed not to mention it because we did not want you to be disappointed if the general was unable to locate it."

"When I saw the seal, I was worried that it would be bad news," D'Artagnan admitted. "It has been months since the battle, and nature reclaims everything quickly."

Philippe added, "I hope it brings you peace, my friend."

Athos reread the letter, and felt his eyes begin to well.

D'Artagnan stepped forward and placed his hands on his friend's shoulders. "At the river that day when we settled our differences, I made a promise to you that I would attempt to locate Raoul's grave so that you would be able to visit it when this cursed war is over. With Philippe's help as king, I was able to fulfill that promise."

"You have no idea what this means to me," Athos said, his voice choked with emotion. "I am overcome. Thank you. Thank you both." His eyes glistened with unshed tears as his gaze locked briefly with D'Artagnan's eyes, then Philippe's before lowering them to the letter that was still clutched in his hands. After a moment, he left the room, the letter still clutched in his hand.

After they heard the door close, Philippe said, worriedly, "He seems so sad again. Will he be all right?"

"He will be fine," D'Artagnan replied. "He just needs some time alone. By tomorrow, he will have recovered and will be back at court." He knew that the disclosure of Raoul's grave had brought the older man much joy, but it had also been a painful reminder of what he had lost. But at least now there was a marked grave that he could visit, and that was an important part of accepting his loss and moving forward.

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_**A/N:** The next chapter will be the last._


	39. Chapter Thirty Nine

_**A/N: **Wow, it took me more than a year to get here, but this is it. The final chapter. I had most of this chapter written a long time ago so that I would have something to work toward, so that is why it is getting posted rather quickly after the last._

_My sincere thanks to everyone who read this story and took the time to review. It means a lot to me. Best wishes to all._

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Chapter Thirty Nine

D'Artagnan hesitated outside the door to Louis' chamber. It had been three weeks since the successful midnight transfer of the former king, during which time the Musketeer captain had traveled with Anne on her weekly visits, but he had never set foot inside the chamber, nor had he been invited in. Then, to his surprise, a message arrived from the Estate early in the morning stating that the prisoner had requested to see him at his earliest convenience. D'Artagnan was both surprised and overjoyed by the summons, having never expected to again lay eyes upon his older son in this life. No indication had been provided to explain why Louis wanted to see him, only that he should come at his earliest convenience.

Beside him, Herve, his jailer, made an unintelligible guttural sound, drawing the Musketeer's gaze. As their eyes met, he gestured toward the door, indicating that the door was unlocked and D'Artagnan could enter.

With a nod, he opened the door and stepped inside. The bolt slid into place behind him, locking him in the room with Louis.

Louis was standing at the window looking out across the sunny, gently rolling hills beyond the courtyard, reminding the Musketeer of the way Anne had stood at her window for so many years, longing for a freedom that she could never have. His hands were clasped behind his back, but he stood in his typically regal position, still proud and authoritative even while incarcerated, and D'Artagnan was pleased that Louis' spirit had not broken. For a moment the former king seemed unaware of his presence. Finally, he turned and his gaze settled upon the man who had helped to remove him from power.

D'Artagnan bent slightly at the waist and dipped his head in a respectful nod, still offering the deposed king the respect he would have expected had he still been in the palace. To his surprise, Louis gave a single nod of his head in response, a gesture which suggested that he had accepted his loss of power.

"Thank you for coming," Louis said.

D'Artagnan moved closer, so happy to see his son that he wished he could embrace him, but of course he did not. He stopped about ten feet away and observed the younger man's countenance, detecting a great deal of difference in his demeanor than the last time he had seen him, when he was angry and bitter over his arrest. "I did not think you would want to see me," he admitted.

"I did not believe I would, either," Louis agreed with a note of irony in his voice. "But I have had much time to sit and think about everything that has happened in my life and the way I have lived it . . . and perhaps abused it."

D'Artagnan cocked his head slightly, unable to hide his surprise at this unexpected comment.

Louis offered a slight smile. "Yes, D'Artagnan. I have thought long and hard about our last meeting, when you placed your hand on my leg and gripped it in a way that a father would as you urged me to accept my fate."

His eyes, which had strayed briefly to the décor of the sitting room while the other man spoke, snapped back to Louis' face, startled.

Louis smiled again, apparently enjoying the Musketeer's astonishment. "Forgive me. It was not my intention to startle you so. Of course, I know that you are not my father, but it has occurred to me that you have often treated me as such. For as long as I can remember, you have looked out for me. I even remember you coming to my room once as a small child. You thought I was asleep, and you stood there for a long time watching me."

D'Artagnan was immediately uncomfortable with this revelation, and he lowered his eyes to the floor, recalling those long ago nights when he would sneak unnoticed into the child's room to simply gaze at him, marveling at the life he and Anne had created together, and lamenting that the only way he could be a part of that life was in a subservient way. He had visited him many more times than just the one, but he had been unaware that Louis had been awake that time.

"I knew that you were watching over me," Louis continued. "Protecting me as you did my entire life. And now you protect _him_."

The words were spoken harshly, and D'Artagnan felt a twinge of guilt. "He is now the king."

Louis waved away the statement with a flick of his hand. "I know. I told no one about you being there that night, for I am certain my father would not have approved you coming to my chamber without his permission. What I am trying to say is that I always felt safe with you in the palace, D'Artagnan. You went above and beyond the call of duty to assure my safety, and I took that for granted. I remember other things, too, the way you would speak to me in ways that a father might, and the way you sought to council me, even when I was not willing to hear it. And I remember the last day, just before I was taken away. There were tears in your eyes as you looked at me. I noticed it even then, but could not imagine why. Now, I understand. It hurt you to see me placed in the mask and taken to the Bastille."

"It hurt me deeply to see that done to you." He averted his eyes and shook his head, slowly in regret. "I wish there had been some other way . . . "

"I could not understand it at the time. But now, after the past two months of confinement and many hours in which to think, I realize that you have always cared deeply for me. You dedicated every aspect of your life to watching over me and protecting me, and I never once felt gratitude for the sacrifices you made. Until now. You kept your word to have me removed from the mask and from the Bastille. Aramis told me that you were responsible for me being allowed in the courtyard unattended, and for that I am very thankful."

"Are you comfortable, your majesty? Is there anything that you need?"

"I am no longer king, yet you do me the honor of referring to me as 'your majesty'."

"You are still royalty, whether or not you sit on the throne."

Again, there was that single nod of affirmation. "The one thing I want is the one thing you will not give me, and so there is no point in asking for it," he replied with a trace of bitterness in his voice. He paused briefly, then continued, "To answer your first question, I am as comfortable as I can be while being imprisoned. I have nice rooms, a soft bed, a lovely garden, many books to read, and plenty to eat. But I am lonely, D'Artagnan. I am accustomed to having many people around me, but here there is no one to talk to, except when my mother comes to visit."

"Sire, you must understand –"

Louis raised his hand, cutting him off. "I know. No one must see my face except Herve and his wife, and he is unable to speak to me. I had his tongue cut out, you know. He hates me for that. I see it in his eyes every time he opens my door. And Marie. She hates me just as much for what I did to her husband. How easy it was for me to issue that order!" Slowly, Louis walked back to the window and gazed longing toward the distant rolling green hills that lay beyond the walls of his domain. "This is the first time I have physically seen the result of the punishments that I levied on others. Punishments were always ordered, and then I put them out of my mind. But here, I see it and am reminded of it every day. He will live without his tongue for the rest of his life. I cannot imagine such a thing. And I will live without the power I once had." He sighed, heavily. "Some days, I am glad I am no longer king and no longer have the responsibilities. Other days, I miss the life that I once had. I miss the parties and the women. That is the hardest part."

He fell silent for a long time, and behind him, D'Artagnan waited silently for him to continue.

"Was I truly such a bad king?" he asked at last.

D'Artagnan shifted from one foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable with the question. "How am I to answer that?" he asked. "Do you believe you were a bad king?"

Louis did not respond immediately. For several moments, he lingered by the window, then turned abruptly and strolled to the table and rummaged around in the bowl of nuts that had been provided to him. "Until a few weeks ago, I would have said no," he finally replied. He gestured toward the bowl. "Would you care for something?"

D'Artagnan shook his head.

With a handful of nuts, Louis went to a chair and sat down. "Do you think Philippe will forgive me for placing him in the mask and sending him to prison?"

"I believe he already has."

"I wouldn't, had it been me," he admitted. "Having endured the mask for five weeks, the longest five weeks of my life, I cannot imagine living in that thing for six years, as he was forced to do. Did you hear what he said to me before I was taken away? That he hoped we would someday be able to know each other as brothers?"

"Yes," D'Artagnan replied, cautiously, wondering where this curious line of question was leading. "Under the circumstances, he showed remarkable generosity."

"From the moment my father revealed his existence to me, he was like a shadow following me constantly, always in the back of my mind, always present even though he lived far away. I had never seen him, nor did I ever wish to see him, for I feared he would do exactly what he has done – take my throne. But now that it is done, I suppose I have come to see him as less than a threat. As you said, he has shone remarkable generosity. For the past three weeks, living in this fine house away from the horrors of the Bastille, I realize that he has been far more forgiving than I would have been in the same position. I want to get to know him," Louis finally came to the point. "Will you bring him here so that I might speak with him? If he will agree to come, that is."

D'Artagnan was clearly uncomfortable with the request and the possible problems it presented. "I will speak to him about your request, but you must be aware that if he agrees to come, I cannot permit the two of you to be alone together."

Louis appeared disappointed. "You do not trust me."

"It is a matter of protocol. You know that. The king cannot be left alone with someone who has made an attempt on his life."

This was clearly not what Louis had wanted, but he nodded his acceptance of it. "Very well, then. But I still wish to see him."

"I will tell him."

"I have one other request. I need a companion, someone to share my time with. I know that companion cannot be human, so I would like to have a dog. A small dog would be fine, one that would be content living inside with me and accompanying me to the courtyard. I promise, I will treat it better than I have treated the people under my authority."

"I see no reason why that cannot be granted."

"Thank you for coming, D'Artagnan."

D'Artagnan knew that this was his signal to leave, so he bowed slightly, then returned to the door. He rapped three times on it, and Herve unbolted it and opened it. The Musketeer paused in the doorway to gaze over his shoulder at the son he had never stopped loving, then gave a nod of acknowledgement, and walked back down the corridor. Behind him, he heard the echoing slam of the door and the bolt being returned to its locked position.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

"He wants to see me?" Philippe asked in astonishment.

"I cannot overlook the possibility that it might be a trick, but yes, that is what he said," D'Artagnan replied.

They were in Philippe's bedchamber, visiting casually over a bottle of Bordeaux, something that would never occurred while Louis was in power.

D'Artagnan continued, "I have no idea what he wants to speak with you about, but he says he is lonely and that he has had a great deal of time to think about the things he has done, including the things he has done to you, and your leniency toward him."

"Do you think he is sincere?" Philippe asked.

His father shrugged. "That remains to be seen. Your brother has always been a master at deception. However, in this case, it is my desire to believe him. His only visitor is your mother. His loneliness must be great. It seems natural that he would be drawn to his family."

Philippe fell silent for a long time, contemplating the idea of finally having a discussion with his twin brother. "I had hoped this day would come, but I never imagined it would be so soon! Will I be permitted to speak with him alone?"

"You know the answer to that, Philippe," D'Artagnan chastised in a gentle voice. "The king is never, ever left alone with someone who might do him harm. I will be with you."

"Perhaps Mother can go with us, and we can all be as a family!"

D'Artagnan shook his head in disagreement. "That would not be a good idea. Remember, son, Louis is unaware that I am his father, and you must not reveal that to him." He paused, recalling the conversation they had shared only hours before. "Although there were a few moments today when I was worried that he might suspect." He told Philippe about his brother's comments, but then added, "His later comments assured me that he remains unaware, but he seems close to me, like he would see a father figure. When you see him, you must say noting that would reveal the truth to him. As much as I would like to claim him as my son, it would not be fair to him. He believes he is the son of the former king; we must allow him to continue to think that."

"I will say nothing to him about it. I just thought it would be nice for all four of us to be in the same room together. But as you said, that can come later."

"There is one other thing. He has requested that he be allowed to have a dog as a companion. I believe it is a good idea, and will help alleviate the boredom and loneliness."

"Then it shall be done. Since you know him better than anyone else, I leave it to you to make the selection. When will we go?"

"The decision is yours. We will go at your convenience."

He glanced at the clock. "I would like to go now, but the hour grows late. First thing tomorrow, then."

D'Artagnan placed the glass on the table, and stood up. "And in the meantime, I must locate a suitable dog."

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

The next morning, with an escort of Musketeers, Philippe rode with D'Artagnan in the coach that bore them to the estate home where Louis was living. Although it was unusual for D'Artagnan to ride inside the coach with the king, as his head bodyguard it was done on certain occasions, so it was not questioned. A small white dog with long hair and large black spots rode in a basket on the seat beside the captain. Not one of the Musketeers suspected that their monarch was visiting anyone except a friend who lived there, and they waited outside while D'Artagnan, carrying the dog under one arm and the basket in the other, entered the residence with Philippe.

Marie and Herve were there to open the door for them, and after the initial shock of observing his resemblance to the deposed king, they bowed and curtseyed with great respect.

"I speak for both of us in saying that it is an honor to welcome you here, your majesty," Marie said in a nervous, rather animated tone. "If there is anything you need or require during your visit, please let us know."

"I will do that," Philippe replied in the slightly indifferent tone that he hated to use when greeting servants.

With both hands full, D'Artagnan nodded his head toward the staircase. "Up the steps and down the corridor, your majesty," he said.

Together, the two men climbed the steps and walked together down the long, darkly paneled corridor, with Herve trailing at a respectful distance. All the while, Philippe was looking curiously at the richly polished paneling, the portraits and paintings in their gilded frames, and the colorful tapestries.

"You say it was in a state of disrepair?" Philippe asked.

"Very much so. No one had lived here in a number of years, and the house was allowed to fall into decay. I have no idea if your predecessor had any intentions for the house before the exchange, but I suspect he had forgotten about it."

"The workers did an excellent job restoring it to good condition."

"There are doors on both sides," Philippe observed. "Is anyone living in the rooms that are not his?"

"Yes. Herve and Marie occupy the rooms across the hall from his to be readily available if he needs anything. The other servants live on the third floor, but the doors to the rooms directly above his have been sealed to prevent access. An additional precaution."

Philippe came to a stop outside a door that had a sturdy metal slide bolt on it, and correctly assumed that this was his brother's quarters. He stopped beside it, and glanced at his father as he drew a deep, calming breath. "I feel so nervous!" he admitted.

"There is no reason to be nervous, your majesty," D'Artagnan said, continuing the charade for the benefit of Herve, who was approaching behind them. "I will be there to observe, but I will remain near the door to allow you both a reasonable amount of privacy. Remember, sire, you must remain in the sitting room where I can see you both."

Herve pulled back the slide bolt and pushed the door open a crack, peering inside to determine the location of his prisoner. Seeing him in the most comfortable chair, he opened the door fully and gestured for the two men to enter.

Louis stood up expectantly when D'Artagnan and Philippe stepped into the room. Behind them, the door was closed and locked again. The sound of the slide bolt being pushed into place generated a brief sensation of panic inside Philippe's heart, having heard that sound many times over the past six years, and as he looked into his brother's eyes, the younger twin saw a knowing expression reflected in Louis' eyes.

The dog in D'Artagnan's arms whimpered and squirmed, wanting down, and the sound drew Louis' attention, breaking the gaze with his brother. The Musketeer was surprised by the way his son's eyes lit up at the sight of the dog.

"You kept your word," Louis said. "Set him down; let us see what he looks like."

D'Artagnan placed the small dog on the floor, and the three men watched as it shook its long white coat and pranced around the floor, its nails clicking on the wood floor.

"He is a Continental Toy Spaniel, five months old," D'Artagnan explained. "I conducted some investigating, searching for a dog suitable to your rank, and found that the Continental Spaniel was the official dog at the court of Henri III, and was much favored by him."

"So he has a royal history," Louis said, smiling happily as he knelt down and patted his thigh to gain the dog's attention. It pranced eagerly to him, waving its bushy tail. "Excellent, D'Artagnan. You did well!"

"I am glad that he pleases you."

"He does indeed." After petting and playing with the dog for several moments, Louis stood up again to look at his brother, marveling that he could have been looking into a mirror, the resemblance was so great. "So, we meet again, my brother."

From Louis' tone of voice and his direct, penetrating gaze, it was impossible to determine if his greeting was intended to be unpleasant or simply an observation, so Philippe merely replied, "Yes."

Louis observed that Philippe's eyes seemed uncertain. "Do you fear me, Brother?"

"No. I was surprised that you asked to see me, but I am happy that you did."

"Are you?" Louis said in a rather taunting voice as he turned and made his way back to his chair and sat down. The dog trotted halfway, then stopped and looked over its shoulder at D'Artagnan, the person with whom it had spent most of its time since leaving its first home. Louis saw its hesitation, and called, "Come here, boy." He looked pleased when it jumped up in his lap, and his hand stroked its soft fur as he said, "I thought it was time you and I talked. Is the palace to your liking?"

"Better than my last residence," Philippe told him, pointedly. "Courtesy of you, I might add."

"Touché," Louis said with a smile. "I suppose I should apologize for that. Aramis told me when he brought me here that our father would not have approved of my locking you in the mask and hiding you away at the fortress prison on St. Marguerite." He stroked his chin thoughtfully with one hand as his other hand continued to stroke the dog. "I dare say, he is probably correct, since Father had previously seen to your welfare. I was in a panic, you see. Of everyone in the world, you were probably the one person I feared. I feared you would do exactly what you have done – take my throne."

"Taking your throne was never my idea. In fact, I did not want it."

"If you did not want it, then why did you take it?"

D'Artagnan stood near the door, determined to merely observe as his twin sons discussed their situations and hopefully reached some sort of understanding between them, but Louis' bitter words were too much. "Louis," he warned.

Philippe waved an arm toward him, beckoning him not to interfere. "No, it is a fair question. Athos, Porthos, and Aramis removed me from the prison and from the mask, and they told me who I was. Before that, I had no identity. I know only that the woman who raised me called me Philippe. I was happy there with her, until the night the men came on your orders and took me to the forge, where they put me in the mask. They never told me what crime I had committed, and I wore that mask for six years, all the while wondering what I had done to deserve such brutal treatment. You wore the mask for five weeks. Tell me, Louis, was it a pleasant experience?"

"You already know the answer to that."

"I could have left it on you for six years, as you had done to me."

"Why didn't you?"

"Because there is no such cruelty in me. When they told me the things you had done, the horrors you had inflicted on others, I knew I had a chance to change things for the better. I could never do to other people the things you have done."

"You are an idealist."

Philippe smiled in agreement. "Perhaps."

To his surprise, Louis smiled in return. "So, we agree on something." He stood up again and turned his back as he walked to the window. For several moments, he stood looking out while Philippe waited. "There is one thing that has confused me, my brother. How is it that my valet, Francois, has not noticed any differences between us? Surely, there must be some noticeable differences."

Brief surprise flashed across Philippe's face, then realized that Louis had never been told. "Of course, you do not know! Francois is not my valet."

"No?" Louis asked, curiously. "You relieved him of duty?"

"No. The day of the hunt, Francois fell down the stairs into LaCroix's wine cellar and broke his leg. LaCroix was most upset, and agreed to keep him there until he had recovered sufficiently to travel, but Francois kept insisting that he was not healing property and could not travel. That turned out to be a ruse, for a few weeks ago he ran away with LaCroix's eldest daughter."

Louis turned around, stunned. "He just left without word about it to the king? I find that difficult to believe! Always, he was the most loyal of servants, the one I could depend on!"

"I suppose he loved the woman more than he loved his king," Philippe suggested.

After a moment, Louis began to laugh. "I bet LaCroix nearly fainted when he found out that his noble daughter had run away with a servant!"

At the door, D'Artagnan could not suppress his smile, thinking that the news had brought the same result from everyone who had heard it.

"Women do have that effect on men," Louis continued. He turned back to face the window with a wistful sigh. "Women are a true pleasure to men, but if there is one thing I miss about all this, even more than the women, it is the palace," he said, at last. "It is hard to imagine that I will never see it again."

At the door, D'Artagnan winced, visibly distressed by his son's wistful words, but Louis' attention was directed at the landscape outside the window and did not see.

"I am sorry," Philippe said.

Louis turned around again. "What have you to be sorry for? Perhaps I am getting what I deserved."

"I do not believe that," Philippe said. "This was never intended to be a deliberate vendetta against you. The Jesuits only sought a better king, and I was chosen because I am your brother."

"Mother never says much to me about it when she comes to visit, but she does say that you are doing an admirable job, even though you have had no experience in governing a country. She says you have a natural aptitude for the position. I underestimated you."

"I have good council to help me until I am ready to govern on my own."

"I had a good council also, but I would not accept their advice on many things. Perhaps it would have been different if I had," Louis admitted. "I have a favor to ask, brother."

Philippe gestured for him to continue.

"Do you ride my white stallion?"

"No. I prefer the black."

"Then if he is not being used, I would like the field out there beyond the wall to be fenced and ask that he be released into it, where I might see him from my window. I can hear horses sometimes when I am in the courtyard, but I cannot see them. I love to watch horses running and grazing, and he was my favorite. It would cheer me considerably to see him again."

Philippe deferred to D'Artagnan, who gave a slight nod. "I see no reason why that should not be granted," the Musketeer responded. "I will have some men begin building a sturdy fence and a shelter for him next week."

"Thank you. And would you also get me a ball so that I can throw it for the dog?"

"I will bring it on your mother's next visit," he promised.

Leaving the window, Louis approached his brother. "When this first happened to me, I refused to admit that I may have made mistakes during my reign. I believed that I had been selected by God to rule France, answering only to Him. Mother accused me of blasphemy when I said that to her."

"She is a good Christian woman," Philippe pointed out.

"Yes, she is. But now you rule France, and according to her, you are doing an admirable job, so perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps _you_ were the chosen one."

D'Artagnan was pleasantly surprised by his son's words. If Louis accepted his subordination to his brother, perhaps in the future there could be even more privileges. Of course he did not say so aloud, since Louis might be on his best behavior in order to gain favors and then one day bolt, but it lifted his heart considerably to hear it.

"I cannot bring myself to bow to you as my king," Louis continued. "My pride and my former position will not allow it. But I have been thinking that perhaps, as you suggested once before, you and I could at least be brothers." After a slight pause, he reached out his right hand toward his twin.

With barely a hesitation, Philippe reached out to accept his brother's handshake.

_finis _

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_**A/N**: The Continental Toy Spaniel is the forerunner of the Papillon and the Phalene (a drop-eared version of the Pap). During his reign, King Henri III, the last of the Valois kings, declared this breed the official dog of the royal court. He was succeeded in 1589 by Henri IV, the first of the Bourbon kings._


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